


fortune favors the brave.

by doctorkaitlyn



Series: tumblr fics & ficlets. [10]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Brief Description of Injuries, Canonical Character Death - Camden Lahey, Drivesuit Scars, Established Scott McCall/Allison Argent, Flashbacks, Happy Ending, Jaeger Pilots, Multi, Past Child Abuse, Polyamory, Sexual Content, elements of ptsd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 00:42:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3431705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been three years since Isaac's brother and co-pilot died.  Three years since Camden was ripped out of their Jaeger by a Kaiju named Hammerhead.  Three years that Isaac has spent wandering across the country, trying to forget and unable to let go. </p><p>But as the war between humans and Kaiju continues to intensify, Isaac is recruited back into service by Marshal Deaton, former commander of the Anchorage Shatterdome.  He's brought back to help with the human's last ditch plan: drop a nuclear bomb into the Breach and end the Kaiju threat once and for all.  </p><p>When Isaac arrives at the last American Shatterdome, located just off the California coast, he meets Scott McCall and Allison Argent, pilots of Silver Arrow, the fastest Jaeger in the world.  They're skilled fighters and some of the nicest people Isaac has ever met, but it quickly becomes clear that they're so much more than that.  </p><p>They're <i>compatible</i> with him, in more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anchorage.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Noducksinpond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noducksinpond/gifts).



> Written for Round Three of the Teen Wolf Rarepair Exchange, based on the prompt "Pacific Rim copilots." I'd been wanting to write a PR fusion for awhile now, so I'm very happy that I got the opportunity to do so for this exchange! I visited the [Pacific Rim Wiki](http://pacificrim.wikia.com/wiki/Pacific_Rim_Wiki) a _lot_ while I wrote this; it's definitely worth a read if you're interested! 
> 
> major thanks go to [queerkira](http://queerkira.tumblr.com/) for being an amazing beta!

The first thing Isaac sees when he wakes up is his mother. 

The picture is attached to the ceiling of his bunk (which also serves as the bottom of Camden's) with clear tape that's starting to peel at the corners. The picture itself is yellowed and the edges are frayed from so much handling. He doesn't remember it being taken; he was only three at the time, a small child with a mop of curls and a shy smile balanced on his mom's knee, face pressed against her shoulder. It was only a few months before she died. The flowered scarf tied around her head to hide her hair loss is as bright as her smile, and her face isn't gaunt, not like how it was at the end. 

He takes care not to look at his father. If it wasn't for the fact that Camden was sitting on his dad's shoulders and beaming at the camera, Isaac would have ripped that part of the photo off long ago. 

On this particular morning, Isaac doesn't have much of an opportunity to look at the picture, because after his eyes focus through the haze of sleep, he realizes that someone is shaking him. 

“Isaac, buddy, c'mon, get up!” Camden sounds giddy, like a kid on Christmas Day. Beyond that, Isaac can hear sirens blaring. The combination of those two factors can only mean one thing. 

“What time is it?” Isaac groans. He says _good morning mom_ quickly in his head as he swings his legs over the edge of his bunk. 

“Four o'clock.” Camden pats his cheek one more time before bouncing back across the tiny room, pulling a shirt over his head. “They spotted a category three a few minutes ago. Got a codename for him already: Hammerhead. Sounds cool, huh?” 

“Yeah, I guess.” Isaac thinks the Kaiju's codename sounds exactly like all the others, but Camden's enthusiasm has always been infectious. He can't help but crack a smile as his brother yanks his jumpsuit out of the small closet they share. By the time Cam comes back from the bathroom attached to their room, Isaac is dressed and adrenaline has begun to overtake his tiredness. 

“You ready to add a sixth name to our list?” Camden asks. This time, when Isaac grins, the excitement is all his own. 

“Hell yeah. Let's go.” 

Isaac hardly pays attention as they walk to the loading bay; this part is complete routine. They get loaded into their drive suits without a hitch (although he doesn't miss the appreciative wink that one of the technicians sends him), and as they're waiting to be dropped, Isaac looks over at his brother. He's smiling broadly, like he's doing nothing more strenuous than relaxing at the beach. 

“Just another day at the office, right?” Cam says, his voice slightly crackly through the intercom in Isaac's suit. 

“Yeah. Just another day,” Isaac grins back, his stomach dropping rapidly to the floor as Gravedigger's head begins its rapid descent to join with the rest of the Jaeger's body. As soon as the connection is made, another voice comes crackling over Isaac's intercom, much softer and far less enthused than his brother's. 

“Good morning gentlemen, I trust you are faring well.”

“Good morning Marshal Deaton,” Isaac and Cam say in unison. They don't answer the second part of his statement; Isaac is pretty sure that Deaton doesn't want to hear that they were both out at a bar until nearly midnight. 

“Twenty minutes ago, we detected a category three Kaiju, codenamed Hammerhead, just off the coast. We need you to divert him away from the populated shores and back out into the ocean before you take him down. Understood?” 

“Yes sir, understood.”

“Good luck. Initiating neural handshake in three, two, one.”

&. 

Isaac had tried explaining drifting to someone once, on one of the nights that he and Camden had gone out to one of the bars where their reputation as pilots outweighed the fact that Isaac wasn't yet legal. It'd been a girl that had asked him about it, at least a couple years older than him, with long brown hair and a round, inviting face. Although drinking usually made him a little bit personable, Isaac hadn't been able to think of a single way to answer her question. He simply didn't have the words to explain how it felt. Sure, he could have spouted off some lines from the science programs they'd produced on the topic, recalled some of the testimonies he'd heard while they were in training but truth be told, he had never really found any of them to be accurate. 

The Drift was just... it was the Drift. That was all there was to say about it. Drifting with Camden felt like an extension of how they lived life every day, just amplified.

&. 

As soon as they exit the Shatterdome, heavy rain begins to lash against the windscreen. It looks like things are building up to an early morning storm, and Isaac really hopes that the thunder and lightning will hold off until they're back at base. He's never been a big fan of storms. 

“Oh don't worry, we'll be back long before that point,” Camden says on his right. “We're gonna kick this guy's ass and be back in our bunks before the sun's even up.” 

“Might have to eat breakfast first,” Isaac replies. He's not sure if he says the words aloud but either way, Camden laughs in return. 

“Good point. I could go for some pancakes.” There's a sudden beeping in Isaac's helmet as the Kaiju's location pops up on the radar and together they adjust their course, working as one to power the massive Jaeger. It's like every other fight they've waded into, right up to the point where the Kaiju’s huge, scaly body sinks below the waves, streaking the water with its electric blue blood. They've sustained some damage; a few of the systems are blinking in his peripheral vision, and he can feel Gravedigger's left leg dragging slightly. But it's nothing too severe. Nothing like the condition they were in after they took on Knifehead a few months ago. 

“What did I tell you? Easy as pie,” Camden chirps, turning to begin the walk back to the Shatterdome. 

“God, don't talk about pie, I'm starving,” Isaac groans. The sun is just beginning to come up, painting the horizon a pale orange through the subsiding rain. It's a beautiful sight, but much as Isaac appreciates the view, he would also appreciate shoveling some food into his mouth and sleeping most of the day, to ease the routine aches and pains that always come hand in hand after a fight. 

He hears Marshal Deaton's voice at the same time that their radar systems begin to screech again. 

“Target is still in play, I repeat, _that Kaiju is still alive_!” 

“That's impossible,” Isaac and Camden say at the same time. Isaac doesn't have a chance to look at the radar before a colossal weight crashes into the right side of Gravedigger, knocking them off balance and jostling them painfully. Alarm bells begin ringing, and Isaac tries his best to block them out as they cock back Gravedigger's left arm, charging up the plasma cannon. The weight vanishes for a moment but comes back seconds later when the Kaiju slams into Camden's side of the Jaeger again. 

“Plasma cannon's almost charged!” Isaac tries to say. It's a sentence that he doesn't finish. There's a bone-shuddering crunch, and sparks begin to rain down from the roof of the cabin as the Kaiju makes impact again. Isaac turns his head just in time to see the entire wall of Camden's side of the cockpit disappear in one fell swoop, exposing them to the elements. 

It also exposes them to the Kaiju, who's rearing out of the ocean in what seems like slow-motion, blood drenched down its front, clawed foot reaching for Gravedigger's head. Seconds before it makes impact, Isaac knows what's going to happen. Or maybe it's Camden that knows. It's impossible to pull their thoughts apart. 

“Cam!” Isaac screams at the top of his lungs. Camden turns his head, sparks raining down upon his suit, leaving faint black scorch marks on the white metal. His expression is hard to read but mainly, Isaac thinks he looks resigned. 

It's one of the scariest things Isaac has ever seen.

 _I'm sorry_ , Camden says, not with his mouth but with his mind. There are memories associated with those words, little bits and pieces that filter through Isaac's brain in the short seconds before his entire being is flooded with absolute agony. Camden's gone, ripped from the cabin by the Kaiju that should have been lying dead on the bottom of the ocean. 

For a few excruciating seconds, Isaac can't think through the pain. He can still hear and see but he can't make the connection between his senses and his brain. It doesn't seem like anything is _real_. There's no way it can be real, not with Camden gone. It simply doesn't make sense. 

The pain doesn't lessen; the incessant beeping in his ear just grows louder and louder until it pierces through the white noise of agony. It's only when he focuses on the beeping that he hears the quieter words being repeated over and over again by the AI's voice. 

_Plasma cannon ready._

He doesn't think. He just does what he would do if Camden were still by his side. When the Kaiju leaps again, Isaac meets it halfway, thrusting Gravedigger's left arm into the beast's open mouth. It's a move that does a considerable amount of damage on its own but Isaac triggers the plasma cannon anyways, only vaguely aware of the hot tears pouring down his face, mingling with sweat and the blood dripping from his nose. He fires over and over again, completely emptying the clip. This time, there can be no doubt that the Kaiju is dead; the plasma cannon has destroyed most of its head, leaving a tangled mess of flesh behind. 

Isaac barely notices. 

The next few minutes seem like eons. He drifts in and out of consciousness; one moment, he's staring at the shattered innards of Gravedigger, pumping his legs up and down to keep the massive machine moving. The next, he's transported back ten years to the small bedroom he used to share with Camden. Instead of shrieking alarms, he can hear Camden reading him a comic, and his father downstairs, drunk and screaming at the television. 

And then he's back in the present, just as quickly as he was transported to the past. The pain is still all encompassing but he just keeps moving, taking wet, shuddering breaths through his mouth. 

He doesn't remember making it to shore. When he pulls himself out of his memories again, he's kneeling on the snowy ground. He can feel cold air brushing exposed skin on his right arm, and when he looks down, he sees that the metal of his drive suit has shattered. There's blood on his suit, some of it electric blue. Mainly, it's red, dripping down onto the snow. He knows that he should be able to feel the pain from that, but the pain of a (possibly) broken arm is nothing compared to everything else. 

He can hear footsteps approaching him but when he looks up, a tsunami of lightheadedness comes over him, toppling him to his side. His head is pounding, his vision blurring in and out of focus. He tries to squint in order to see better, but the harder he tries, the worse he feels. 

“Cam?” he whispers through cracked, bleeding lips. “Is that you?”

&. 

When he wakes up, he's inside. It's a room he recognizes all too well, the stark gray walls and antiseptic smell marking it as one of the tiny medical rooms at the Shatterdome. He blinks a few times before he cranes his head, taking in his surroundings more fully. There's an IV hooked into his left arm, while his right is swaddled in thick bandages. There's a dull throb all over his body. It isn't painful, but it has the _potential_ to be painful if the drugs they're pumping into him wear off. The only other furniture in the room is a streamlined chair sitting in the corner, currently occupied by Marshal Deaton. His hands are clasped in his lap and he's staring down at the floor, looking for all intents and purposes like a statue. When Isaac shifts slightly, he looks up, face smooth and without expression. 

“Hello Isaac,” he says quietly. “How are you feeling?” Isaac doesn't bother answering the question; not only because he feels like shit but because he doesn't think he has the energy to force out a full sentence. Instead, he licks his lips, tastes blood and manages to say one word. 

“Camden?” he asks. He knows not to get his hopes up, he knows it, but that knowledge doesn't lessen the spike of pain that goes through him when Deaton shakes his head. 

“I'm sorry. We're still searching for him.” 

“For his body,” Isaac manages to croak through his sandpaper dry throat. To his credit, Deaton doesn't attempt to lie. He simply nods. 

“Yes. For his body. If we find anything, you will be the first person to know. But for now, you should get some more rest.” 

_Fuck rest_ is what Isaac wants to say, but there's no denying that he's still tired, even if it's just from the drugs. He drops his head back against his pillow as Deaton stands up, but the marshal doesn't leave right away. Isaac cracks one eye back open to find Deaton standing at the end of the bed, hands loosely grasped behind him in something almost approaching parade rest. 

“I really am sorry, Isaac,” he says. “More than you know.” 

“Yeah,” Isaac rasps, closing his eyes again. He wants to scream at the top of his lungs. He wants to scour every inch of the Pacific Ocean with his bare hands, just to try and find something, some piece of Camden. He wants to rail against the fact that all the apologies in the world won't bring Camden back from the sea. 

Mainly though, he just wants to sleep.


	2. To Canada and Back.

It's a few days before he recovers enough to start walking again. He only makes it as far as the bathroom down the hall but still, it's progress, only slightly impeded by the IV rack he has to pull along behind him. 

He spends a few moments standing in front of the sink, water dripping from his hands, staring at himself in the mirror. His face has taken on a gauntness that he doesn't recognize, and there are purple semi-circles hanging underneath his eyes. When he rubs one hand over the flesh stretched tight over his cheekbones, honest-to-god stubble prickles against his palm. He can hear Camden's voice in his head, taunting him about it. 

It's while he's trying to shake his brother's voice out of his mind that he sees the red line of raised tissue poking out from underneath the collar of the long-sleeved hospital gown. Somewhere along the line, the doctors had removed his bandages, but he doesn't remember any of them mentioning anything about what lay underneath them, aside from a badly sprained arm. He reaches for the hem of the gown and attempts to pull it over his head. For a few seconds, he gets the thing stuck half-over his neck, tangled in the IV cord. Finally, even as he hears Cam's rollicking laugh ringing in his ears, he yanks the IV out of his arm with a sharp tug, and drops the now ripped gown to the floor. 

The gauntness isn't limited to his face. While he's never carried a lot of weight, he knows that his ribs and hips were never this close to the surface of his skin. But he only notes them for a moment, more distracted by the raised lines of burn tissue curving along the right side of his torso and down his arm. The lines are a hideous red, stark against his pale skin, and he only needs to look at them for a moment before a sickening realization comes over him. He has to grip the edge of the sink to keep from falling over. 

The lines match up to the outline of his drive suit, damaged when Hammerhead ripped Camden away. The moment of his brother's death has been burned into his skin.

He leaves the IV stand behind in the bathroom, tugs the tattered gown back over his head and manages to make it back to the hospital bed without his legs giving out. That's where he is when Marshal Deaton steps into the room minutes, or maybe hours, later. 

“Where's your IV?” he asks calmly, betraying no emotion. Isaac is starting to wonder if Deaton even _has_ emotions. Maybe he was just manufactured in a lab somewhere. 

“In the bathroom,” Isaac answers. Deaton continues to stand motionless just inside the doorway, and after only a few seconds, Isaac breaks the excruciating silence. “Were you ever going to tell me? About the scars?”

“Yes. In a few days. We didn't think you were ready yet-”

“When was I _ever_ supposed to be ready for this?” Isaac interrupts, gesturing at the right side of his body. Deaton doesn't answer and Isaac scoffs, rolling away to face the wall.

“What do you want, Marshal?” he mutters.

“I just wanted to tell you that we've started repair work on Gravedigger,” Deaton finally says. This time, it's Isaac's turn to stay quiet. The thought of climbing back into their Jaeger anytime soon makes him want to throw up. 

Deaton leaves without another word, although he's quickly followed up by a nurse who is quite persistent about wanting to thread another IV into Isaac's arm. It's only when Isaac screams at her to go away that she fucks off. After that, his room stays mercifully empty. 

It's just him and the walls. He swears that he can hear them echoing with fragments of Camden's voice.

&. 

Although the pain is still strong, Isaac refuses to let them thread another IV into his arm. Instead, he spends his days gritting his teeth, digging his fingernails into the mattress of the hospital bed when particularly strong waves of pain flow over him. When it's tolerable, he walks, as far as he can. On day one, he makes it just beyond the bathroom before he has to sit down, eyes slammed shut against the throbbing in his sore limbs. 

But on day two, he makes it a little further. On day three, it's the same. Finally, two and a half weeks after Camden's death, he manages to make it back to their room. As soon as he steps through the door, he sags to the floor, panting slightly, resting his head against the wall. 

It's a long way back to the hospital bed. Isaac has no intentions on ever making that journey. His destination is only an elevator ride away. But before he goes that far, there are a few things he needs to do. 

Their room hasn't been touched at all. There's a thin layer of dust sitting over everything and the air is stale, with faint remnants of clean sweat and shower gel. Camden's bunk is still in tip-top shape while Isaac's is still a mess, with one of the blankets nearly dangling onto the floor and the pillows crooked. There are memories everywhere, attached to every single object in the room, and even though Isaac's muscles are still sore, he gets back to his feet and crosses to the closet. There's a duffel bag shoved at the back, behind boots and socks. He yanks it out, coughing at the puff of dust. 

In his head, he'd been planning to stay in their room awhile, taking a few moments to reflect, or something like that. But with every second that passes, it feels like the walls are getting closer and closer, threatening to suffocate him. So he packs quickly. He grabs random clothes from the closet, not checking to see what is Camden's and what is his. He drops in half a dozen pairs of socks and boxers, his stuff from the bathroom, gloves and a warm hat, a few odds and ends, small reminders of his brother's existence. The bag fills up quickly but before he zips it up, Isaac stoops to look at the photo of his family, taped to the underside of Camden's bunk. Part of the tape has peeled away, leaving the picture to hang by only a corner. 

Gone. Everyone in the picture is gone, including the boy with the shy smile and the mop of curls.

Carefully, Isaac peels away the last scrap of tape and, after a few moments of searching, tucks the photo into a dog-eared paperback that's been sitting underneath his pillows for months, waiting to be finished. It's the last item he places into the duffel bag, and when he hoists it onto his shoulder, it digs into his arm even through the thick winter jacket he's pulled on. He takes one last glance around before he steps back out into the hallway, yanking the door shut behind him with a resounding clang. 

Thankfully, he doesn't meet anyone between his room and the garage, where everyone's personal vehicles are stored. Isaac's never had a car to call his own. He never needed one, so long as Camden was around, and it's Camden's parking space that he walks towards, shifting the heavy duffel on his shoulder. Sure enough, Cam's motorcycle is still there, helmet strapped to the back of it. It's been a long time since Isaac drove it, but so long as the thing actually has fuel, he's pretty sure that he'll be fine. 

Mercifully, Camden always kept the thing in tip-top running order, including having a full tank of gas nearly all the time. Isaac lets the bike run to warm up the engine and while he waits, he straps his bag to the back and yanks the helmet onto his head. He can still faintly smell Camden's shampoo, the one Isaac had hated because it made their entire room smell like 'mountain spring', whatever that meant.

He tries to breathe in through his mouth as he guns the engine, exiting the garage. He breezes through the security gate and just like that, he's on the open road. The Shatterdome rapidly retreats in the mirror behind him, and not once does Isaac look back. 

He has enough to look back on as it is. 

He sticks to the main highways, follows the signs, keeps a close eye on the gas gauge, and is thankful that it doesn't snow or rain. He has to stop in a tiny town just before the Canadian border to refill both the tank and himself. He chugs a cup of tepid, thick coffee, zips his coat up further and keeps going through the night. 

By the time he reaches Whitehorse, he's been up for over a day and been driving for nearly fifteen hours straight. He's exhausted and every one of his bones is aching. Although they're almost healed, the burn scars seem to be throbbing as well. He pulls into the first motel he sees, pays with the cash he took out at a gas station ATM, and falls asleep with his clothes and the television both on.

He dreams. Or maybe he remembers. It's hard to tell the difference anymore. 

Either way, he wakes up clammy with sweat, the room bathed in light from the television. The clock on the table beside his narrow bed reads six o'clock and the early morning news is playing. Normally, he'd ignore it, but a familiar face pops up on the screen and he scrambles to find the remote to turn the volume up. By the time he finds it, Deaton's face is gone from the screen, but the audio of the press conference he'd been at is playing over video footage of a Kaiju rising out of the ocean, right in front of a cruise ship that's docked somewhere along the coast. The video was obviously shot by someone's cell phone; it's grainy and jittery, but it's still clear enough to show the Kaiju (a category three, by the looks of it) pluck the ship from the water like it weighs no more than a feather.

Isaac turns off the television just as the Kaiju tears the ship in half.

&. 

As soon as he's had a shower, he packs up and leaves again. There's really only one direction to go, so he follows the signs south, crossing into British Columbia just as it gets dark. He spends the night in another small town that's seen better days, on a bed with dusty sheets. The room doesn't have a television and although it takes forever to fall asleep in the almost absolute quiet, he's still thankful for it. 

He wakes up a little after sunrise, jolted out of a dream that doesn't fade away even after the sweat has dried on his palms. Once he's had another shower, he leaves again, sweeping snow off of the motorcycle's seat. 

He keeps going south, taking it one day at a time. Sometimes, he drives for twelve hours straight, forests whizzing by on both sides. Other days, he takes detours, depending on if he sees a sign for something interesting. He sees wolves and bears and moose along the way, and it's the only time that he wishes he had a cell phone. It'd be nice to have pictures. 

The weather is starting to get warmer, so he starts skipping over motels in favor of campsites. There's no room for a tent on the back of the bike, but he buys a warm, waterproof sleeping bag that he can strap on. If he uses his bag for a pillow, it's more than comfortable enough. He spends his nights thinking about Camden and staring at the stars through breaks in the trees, the remnants of a fire crackling beside him.

He lives on diner food, coffee and pancakes that vary widely in quality. When he runs out of clothes, he sits in dingy laundromats and reads paperbacks that people have left behind. When his hair gets unruly, he buys a pair of scissors from a hardware store and cuts it himself in a gas station bathroom. He tries to avoid taking money out of his bank account. It's not that he's lacking for it; being a pilot had given him more money than he knew what to do with and that was _before_ the contents of Camden's account were transferred into his own. But every time he uses an ATM, he expects Marshal Deaton or one of his soldiers to come out of the shadows and drag him back to Anchorage. 

He would rather drive straight into the Pacific Ocean than let that happen. 

So he keeps driving south. By the time he crosses back into the United States, spring is in full bloom, bringing rain with it. On his first day back, he spends the night in another campsite. It's here that he comes up with a tentative plan. 

When they were younger, he and Camden spent a lot of time talking about what they would do when they were older. While their father's ranting or snoring drifted up the stairs, they'd talk about where they would go, the places they could visit and the things they could see. Camden's were mostly outdoors, places like the Grand Canyon, national parks, the Salt Flats in Utah. Isaac had always thought his ideas were more exciting; Las Vegas, San Francisco, any museum he could find. 

They'd always been too busy to do those things but now, Isaac can do all of them. 

He takes one last glance up at the stars before he reaches into his backpack and pulls out the paperback sitting on the top. He's switched it out since Anchorage, trading the original for a mystery novel he'd found at a laundromat. It's just as dog-eared as the original book but more importantly, it does the job of holding the photo of his family. It's starting to get a little ragged, so he treats it carefully, holding it with the tips of his fingers.

“Where should we go first?” he murmurs.

&. 

He gets a fake ID and blows thirty bucks in the Vegas slot machines, without a single quarter back to show for it. He goes to see the geyser in Yellowstone National Park. He races across the Salt Flats, pushing the motorcycle faster than he's ever gone, wind tearing at his clothes. 

He turns nineteen while he's at the Grand Canyon. He turns twenty while he's in Atlantic City, where he blows another thirty dollars in a different set of slot machines. In between, there's nothing but miles and miles of open road.

&. 

The bike gives out in Idaho. 

It doesn't so much give out as it explodes. One moment, Isaac's cruising down the road, surrounded by forest on all sides, looking for the turn-off to another park that apparently contains a spectacular waterfall. The next, there's thick smoke pouring up from the bike, directly into his face. He manages to pull over before his vision gets too impeded and when he pulls his helmet off, he immediately starts coughing. The acrid smoke burns his eyes and he walks down the shoulder of the road until he can breathe again. It's a few minutes before it dissipates enough for him to head back and as soon as he crouches down, he can see what the problem is. 

The engine is scorched black and there's a hole where some part has either exploded or fallen off. Either way, Isaac is pretty sure that he's lucky to still be standing. It doesn't look like something that will be easy or cheap to fix, and it's the latter that's a problem. Although he's been careful about trying not to spend too recklessly, he hasn't deposited any money in the last two years. His bank account is officially empty and his last three hundred dollars is tucked into his wallet. 

When he stands back up, he runs a hand through his tangled hair and lashes out, kicking the bike hard enough to make another piece fall off the engine. He should have thought about this, should have set aside some money solely for repairs. But it's too late for that now. He has no idea where the nearest town is, he has no phone and even if he could find someone to tow the bike, he has almost no money with which to pay them. 

As far as he can tell, he really only has one option. 

He stands the bike back up and unstraps his duffel and sleeping bag from the back, leaving his helmet in their place. Camden would kill him if he knew what he was doing, but then again, if Camden was still alive, Isaac wouldn't be doing this. 

Sometimes, he has a hard time remembering what his brother's voice sounded like. 

He impulsively throws a quick salute in the bike's direction before he turns and starts walking, boots crunching through the leaves and twigs lying on the shoulder of the road. He doesn't look back. He just keeps going, right past the turn-off for the park that had been his original destination. A few cars go by but he ignores them. It's only after the sun starts to descend that he begins to absently stick his thumb out when he hears an engine approaching. He doesn't really expect anyone to pick him up; he's well aware of how disheveled he looks. But just before dark, after he's been walking for at least two hours, someone actually stops. It's a battered truck with a rattling engine and even as he climbs into the passenger seat, he can't help but wonder if the thing will make it a mile without breaking down. 

“Thanks,” he says to the man behind the wheel, who has a mop of wiry hair tucked under a baseball cap and what looks like a plug of tobacco shoved into his lower lip. 

“Not a problem,” the man says, spitting out the window. “Where you headed?” 

“Don't know,” Isaac shrugs. “Anywhere, I guess.” 

“Well, if you don't mind sleepin' in the truck tonight, I can take you as far as Seattle tomorrow. I'm supposed to be starting work on the Wall day after tomorrow.” 

“The wall?” Isaac asks. “What's that?” 

“What do you mean, 'what's that'?'” the man asks, one thick eyebrow raised. “The coastal wall. Y'know, the one they're building to hold off those damn lizard things, Kaiju or what have you?” Isaac continues to stare, blank faced, until the man rolls his eyes and goes back to looking out the windshield. 

“Where the hell have you been for the last year, under a rock?” 

“Something like that.”

&. 

The Anti-Kaiju Wall is a huge, ugly thing, a sprawling framework of metal girders waiting to be covered in concrete. Men crawl across it like ants, welding and hammering, sending sparks flying to the ground. It looks like dangerous, dirty, exhausting work, unlike anything Isaac has ever done in his life. 

But it's work, and he has no money, so when a man in coveralls and a battered hard hat asks if he's looking for a job, Isaac nods and shoulders his backpack. By the end of the day, he's six stories above the ground, straddling a girder, learning how to use a welding torch. 

He goes from following the whims and impulses of his mind to following the Wall. His first impressions of the job were correct; it is filthy, grueling work. Most nights, after the shift change bell rings at four PM, he's almost too tired to eat dinner, let alone shower off the grime he's accumulated over the day. He tries to go for runs in the mornings and on his days off, just to stay in shape, but there are some days where just getting out of bed is a victory in itself. 

Mostly though, working on the Wall is dangerous. There are countless accidents, men who fall and break their arms and legs or sustain concussions. Some of them aren't that lucky. Some of them plummet from the top, crashing into the ground or the ocean. Sometimes, their bodies aren't ever discovered, swept out to sea before the rescue teams can mobilize. 

He tries not to get close to anyone. There are a few acquaintances here and there, people that he'll sit down and exchange small talk with over dinner, but there's no point in making friends, not when there's a chance that they'll fall someday. 

Isaac turns twenty-one in Vancouver, on the same day that he slips on a wet girder and nearly falls six stories. He manages to catch himself at the last possible moment and for a second, he simply hangs there, catching his breath, arms straining. It's the thirteenth near-death experience he had since he started working on the Wall and that night, as always happens after he nearly plummets, his arms throbs. Even his burn scars seem to ache. 

It's three weeks after that experience that the helicopter shows up, just before quitting time. Isaac pays little attention to it; it certainly isn't the first time that some government official has shown up, to inspect their progress or maybe complain about the lax safety standards. When his shift is over, he slides down to the ground and joins the hundreds of other weary, grimy men streaming towards the massive, shoddy warehouse-style building that serves as their temporary home. 

Just as he steps inside, he hears the voice that he has, on some level or another, been dreading for the last three years. 

“Hello, Mr. Lahey.” Isaac stops in his tracks, ignoring the mutters and grumbles that get sent his way. He waits until the crowd has thinned out before he turns his head and sure enough, there's Marshal Deaton, standing just off to the side, hands clasped in front of him. 

“Marshal,” Isaac says, nodding curtly, trying to resist the urge to bolt the other way. After the last of the men have gone inside, Deaton slowly walks forward, gazing up at the ceiling of the building, which looks like it may fall down at any moment.

“You were hard to find,” he says quietly. Isaac can't help but snort. 

“Yeah, that was kind of the point.” Deaton just stands there, face frustratingly hard to read before he simply nods. 

“Could I speak to you in private, Mr. Lahey?” 

“Honestly Marshal, it doesn't get much more private than this,” Isaac mutters, taking a quick glance around. Sure, there are still a few guys within earshot but frankly, Isaac doesn't care. It's either here or in the dormitories, and Isaac hates it there. There's only two feet of space between each bed and the stench of sweat and smoke permeates it. “Whatever you wanna say, you can say it here.” 

“Okay. I need you to come with me, back to the Shatterdome.” 

“No,” Isaac says. “Not fucking happening.”

“Isaac, trust me, I wish that I didn't have to be here, asking this of you. But I have no other option. There are only a few Jaeger's left, including one Mark-3. The Kaiju attacks are increasing and this wall is not going to stop them, no matter how thick you make it. Just this morning, a category four shattered the wall surrounding Sydney. It did it in under an hour, killing thousands of civilians before a Jaeger took it down.”

“Why haven't we heard about it?” 

“Because how many of these men do you think would still be here if they knew their work was for nothing?” Isaac sighs and runs a hand through his dirt-streaked hair. He knows Deaton is right. Although there were a number of occasions where he believed that Deaton was a little less authoritative than he should have been, Isaac has never once doubted his intelligence. 

“What do you need me for?” Isaac asks. “What about Greenberg and Finstock? Or, what was that other guy's name, the one out of...” He trails off because Deaton is shaking his head and even though his mouth is still set in a firm line, there's absolutely no mistaking the emotion in his eyes. 

“You're the only one left. This is our last chance at securing our survival, Isaac. We need all hands on deck for this. I wouldn't be here if that wasn't the case.” Isaac stares at the floor for a long time, trying to sort through the conflicting thoughts in his head. He doesn't want to go back. The thought of being in a Jaeger with anyone else, of letting someone into his head, makes him nervous. It was different with Camden, because he'd experienced all the memories that sometimes threatened to swallow Isaac up. How was he supposed to share those with a complete stranger? 

By the sounds of it, he didn't have a choice.

“Are we going back to Anchorage?” he finally sighs. “Because I'm going to need a better coat if we are.” 

“No. The Anchorage Shatterdome was closed four months ago. There are only two bases left now, one in Hong Kong Harbor and the other off the coast of California. That's where you and I are going.” 

He doesn't leave word with his boss or with any of the other men. He simply packs up the important stuff, leaves his coveralls and hardhat on his bed and follows Deaton to the helicopter that awaits them. According to the pilot, the flight is only supposed to take two hours, but after twenty minutes, Isaac starts to get itchy. Deaton's statements back at the wall had been vague at best, and it occurs to him that he really has no idea what he's walking into. 

“So, what's the plan?” he yells over the noise of the helicopter. “Are we just gonna all run in together, punch a few Kaijus and hope that they'll just go away once and for all?” 

“No,” Deaton yells back. “We're going to drop a nuclear bomb into the Breach and close it.”


	3. Shatterdome.

Somewhere along the way, Isaac manages to drift off, even with the helicopter thrumming all around him. When he opens his eyes again, the world is much quieter and Deaton is in front of him, looking like he's about to shake Isaac by the shoulder. 

“We're here,” he says, sliding the door open on its tracks. The flight deck is a hive of activity, of people and vehicles moving back and forth, calling out and replying to orders in a number of languages. If they're anywhere near the shore, Isaac can't tell from his current position. It's just the ocean on all sides, extending to the horizon, shimmering under the late afternoon sun. 

“Marshal!” One voice rises above the din and when Isaac turns his head, he spots a young man trotting towards them, weaving his way in and out of the other people streaming across the deck. He doesn't look military; instead of the uniforms everyone else is wearing, he's in jeans and a gray jacket and his hair, while short, definitely doesn't conform to army standards. Isaac's also never seen any military personnel smile the way this guy does when he skids to a stop in front of them. He practically _beams_. 

“You got him,” he says, looking back and forth between Isaac and Deaton. “This is the guy, right?” 

“Yes, this is him. Isaac Lahey, this is Scott McCall. He's going to show you around.”

“It's nice to meet you,” Scott says, sticking out his hand. While Isaac takes it briefly, he notices the patch sewn onto Scott's shoulder, the style of which looks familiar. 

“Are you a pilot?” he asks, nodding towards the patch. 

“Yeah,” Scott says, grin back in full force as he twists slightly, giving Isaac a better view. “Silver Arrow. Six kills. We're kind of on a break right now though. That's why I'm the one showing you around.”

“A break?” Isaac asks, sending a pointed glance in Deaton's direction. “I thought this was supposed to be an all hands on deck situation.”

“Oh, it's not like that,” Scott hurriedly says, a hint of pink flush appearing on his cheekbones. “Crap. I should have worded that better.” Before he can continue any further, a soldier runs over and whispers something in Deaton's ear. It must be something serious, as the small smile he's had since disembarking disappears off his face. 

“I'm sorry, there's something I must attend to,” he says. “Scott, can you show Isaac to his room? I'll meet you in the Jaeger bay in half an hour.” With that, he hurries off across the deck and Scott leads Isaac towards a row of elevators. 

“So, I should clear things up,” Scott says once they manage to score an empty elevator. “I'm _not_ on a break. I want to be fighting. It's just-”

“Hold that elevator!” Scott slips his arm between the closing doors and seconds later, another young man stumbles through, coming close to falling on his face, which would be disastrous, considering that he's holding two small, glass jars, which are filled with a murky fluid. He's definitely not a soldier; he's even more casual than Scott, dressed in a plaid button-down over loose jeans, with hair that's sticking up in ridiculous directions.

“Thanks, Scotty. I gotta get these to the lab or they're gonna rot and that's _definitely_ not something you want to smell. Wait, who are you?” he asks, apparently just noticing that Isaac is standing in the corner of the lurching elevator. 

“This is Isaac, the pilot I was telling you about the other day,” Scott says. “Isaac, this is Stiles. He's one of the lab techs.”

“Yep. It's a glamorous lifestyle, way better than Mr. Pilot here.” Scott mutters something under his breath and the pink flush returns to his cheekbones. Stiles, on the other hand, tilts his head slightly and after a moment, he snaps his fingers, nearly dropping one of the jars in the process. 

“Knifehead!” he practically yells. “Four years ago. That was you, right, you and your brother?” The words shouldn't hurt, not after all this time, but it still takes Isaac a few moments to answer. 

“Yeah,” he says, swallowing past the small lump in his throat. “That was us.” 

“Man, that was an awesome fight,” Stiles says, sounding almost wistful. Before he can add anything further, the elevator grinds to a halt and the doors pull back open. He shoots a quick goodbye over his shoulder and it's only after the elevator starts moving again that Isaac sighs quietly. 

“Sorry about him,” Scott says. “We've been friends since we were little and he's always been kind of a handful. He thinks Kaijus are super cool.” 

“Yeah, I got that impression,” Isaac mutters as the elevator creaks opens again, this time onto a long hallway. They stop in front of a door about midway down and Scott pushes it open, revealing a tiny bedroom that's nearly a carbon copy of the one Isaac shared with Camden, albeit smaller and with uglier walls. 

“I know they aren't much, but you get used to it, after awhile,” Scott says with a shrug. 

“I've slept in worse places.” Isaac slides his backpack off his shoulders and rolls out the knots that have formed. There's a computer screen set into the wall, currently displaying a video of a gently roiling ocean and even though it's fake, Isaac can't deny that it lessens the sense of claustrophobia that the room otherwise gives him.

“I'm just gonna pop down the hall for a minute, see if Allison's in our room and then we can head to the Jaeger bay. Is that alright?” It's only after Scott leaves that Isaac realizes that he has no idea who this Allison person is. Based on the fact that Scott said _our_ room, he assumes that they're co-pilots but if that's the case, why aren't they fighting? 

He tries not to worry about it too much. Instead, he spends the minutes he's left alone unpacking. There's already a blanket and sheets on the bed but he unzips his sleeping bag and spreads it out anyways. His clothes easily fit into the small closet, with plenty of room to spare for the other trinkets he has shoved in the bottom of his bag. By the time Scott comes back, he's completely emptied out his duffel and shoved it underneath his bunk for the time being.

“She must be busy, but I'm sure you'll meet her soon enough,” Scott says. “Ready to check out the Jaegers?” Isaac nods. He's still confused about why Scott isn't fighting, but he waits until they're back in the elevator to bring it up. Scott chuckles and rubs at the back of his neck. 

“Allison has a sprained arm,” he says. “It's not bad, but she's had it in a sling for a week or so.” 

“From a Kaiju?” Isaac asks. He'd always felt like he was on top of the world after a fight, at least until the adrenaline wore off. At that point, he'd become conscious of all the aches and pains, the sprained ankles and dark, purple bruises that spread across his ribcage like paint. But in those times, they'd had plenty of time between attacks to recover. Now, that privilege seems to have disappeared. 

“Not exactly. Actually, not at all. We were visiting Stiles down in the lab and she tripped over one of the boxes he had on the floor. I've _never_ heard Deaton yell like that before.”

“Is she going to be healed soon?” 

“Should be. Since we can't fight, I've been helping train some of the candidates that you'll meet tomorrow morning. They're all good students.” 

“I'm sure,” Isaac mutters. He doesn't want to criticize Scott's training efforts, but he doesn't exactly have a lot of faith in finding someone that he's drift compatible with, especially not amongst a group of candidates that he's never met before. Before Scott can reply, the elevator doors slide open, revealing yet another hallway that's nearly identical to all the others Isaac has seen in the past few minutes. Deaton's waiting a few feet away, standing still as a statue. 

“How are you settling in?” he asks. 

“Room's fine,” Isaac says curtly. He can hear the noise of the Jaeger bay from somewhere nearby, the rumbling and beeping of machinery. It's a sound he never thought he'd enjoy hearing again, but being this close makes his impatience intensify. “Can we go-”

“Yes, of course.” Deaton takes the lead and when Isaac casts a sideways glance at Scott, the other man flashes him a quick smile. Isaac doesn't think he's ever met a normal person so happy, let alone one who is literally one of the last lines of defense between the world and the apocalypse. 

They turn a corner and, abruptly, the hallway gets much wider. It ends in the Jaeger bay and after they step inside, Isaac has to stop for a few minutes and just _stare_ at the sheer scale of the place. The ceiling is hard to make out, shrouded in catwalks. It extends the length of several football fields and there are people everywhere. He even hears a dog barking somewhere nearby.

“It's a little larger than Anchorage,” Deaton says. It's such an understatement that Isaac can't help but roll his eyes. “There's room for fifteen Jaegers here. We only have four.” He starts leading his way across the room, weaving in and out of throngs of people. Isaac has a hard time keeping up and a few times, it's only Scott's hand across his chest that keeps him from getting run over by a vehicle or troop of soldiers. 

Sure, there were days where the Wall was hell, but it had _always_ been more orderly than this. 

“Alpha Wolf,” Deaton says after they reach the first Jaeger. “One of two Mark 2's left in the world. Piloted by Derek and Laura Hale.” Although it's definitely one of the oldest Jaegers in existence, it looks brand-new. There's not a scorch mark on the bright red body and the blades attached to the back of the Jaeger's massive fists look razor sharp. Isaac doesn't get much of a chance to take in any more details, because Deaton keeps striding along. 

The next Jaeger is even more streamlined than Alpha Wolf. It's broader in the shoulders but the rest of it is narrow, which probably gives it an advantage in speed. It's dark orange, and when Isaac cranes his head, he can make out what looks like a pointed nose on the Jaeger's head.

“Foxfire, our Mark 4,” Deaton introduces. “Piloted by Kira and Noshiko Yukimura.” There's a young woman standing at the Jaeger's base, in conversation with a soldier, but she still sends them a friendly wave that Isaac returns after a moment. The next Jaeger is further along, past three empty bays. Scott darts from Isaac's side, jogging up to a group of mechanics who are standing at the foot of the massive machine. By the time Deaton and Isaac catch up, Scott is completely embroiled in conversation, rapidly switching between Spanish and English, laughing and clapping the other men on the shoulder. 

“Silver Arrow,” Deaton says and Isaac catches a note of pride in the way he says it. “Mark 5, the fastest Jaeger in the world. Nuclear, with forty engines per muscle strand. Piloted by-”

“Yours truly,” Scott interrupts, breaking away from the other men. “Well, by me and Allison.” It's huge, with limbs that are definitely built for speed, rather than strength. The hull is almost painful to look at, silver and shimmering underneath the bright lights above. There are spikes dotted along the Jaeger's chest and when Isaac moves to get a better angle, he can see that there are also blades attached to its elbow joints. 

“She's pretty impressive,” Isaac says truthfully. 

“Yeah,” Scott says quietly, craning his head backwards and grinning. “She really is. But I think you'll like our last one the best.” In all the excitement, Isaac had actually almost forgotten the original reason that he was brought to the Shatterdome. 

“It'll be quicker if we take the catwalks,” Deaton says, nodding towards another elevator, which is really just a platform with a low railing enclosing it. “It's been undergoing extensive retrofitting and repairs, so we've kept it separate from the other Jaegers.”

They take the wobbly elevator up to the catwalk and after a few minutes of walking, Isaac realizes that he can see sparks up ahead. They're accompanied by the screech of metal against metal and people yelling.

“So which Jaeger is this?” he asks as they emerge from the cramped catwalk into a larger observation deck. “It's not...” The rest of his sentence dies in his throat as he steps up to the railing and realizes exactly what he's staring at. 

“Does that answer your question?” Deaton asks quietly. 

The Jaeger in front of him is freshly painted iron gray, with yellow trim on certain parts. Before, the chest plate had been one solid piece of metal but now, there's a hole in the middle of it, a glimpse right into the machine's heart. 

It may be spruced up but even underneath new paint and armor, Isaac immediately recognizes Gravedigger. 

“Are you kidding me?” he says quietly, barely above a whisper. His fingers are wrapped around the railing so hard that he can feel a piece of metal digging into the meat of his palm. “Is this some kind of joke?” 

“No,” Deaton says. “I'm sorry, Isaac. Gravedigger is the only Mark 3 we have that hasn't been destroyed. You're the only one alive who knows this machine. We needed you.” Isaac takes a moment to stare at Gravedigger, at the men swarming all over the Jaeger, before he turns back around. 

“Why didn't you tell me earlier, before we left?” 

“Because you wouldn't have come. I don't like lying but sometimes, it's necessary. We're at war, Isaac. We don't have many options available to us.” 

“Yeah, I can see that,” Isaac spits. “It doesn't look like I have much choice at all. Do I?” Deaton shakes his head.

“Again, Isaac, I'm-”

“Don't,” Isaac interrupts. “I don't want to hear it again. Just tell me when I'm supposed to meet with the candidates.” 

“Six AM sharp, tomorrow. You have the rest of today to get acquainted with the rest of the Shatterdome. Scott can help you with that. Now, if you excuse me...” With that, Deaton turns on his heel and strides back the way they came, the heels of his shoes clanging on the metal. Isaac turns back to Gravedigger, ignoring the blood that he can feel pooling in his palm from the metal digging in. After a few moments, Scott comes up beside him and crosses his arms on the railing. Truth be told, Isaac almost forgot that he was there. 

“I know you don't want to hear that I'm sorry, so I'm not going to say it,” Scott says quietly. “But I honestly thought that you knew about Gravedigger.” 

“There's nothing for you to be sorry about,” Isaac replies. “It's Deaton. I don't know why I'm surprised.” Now that the initial shock has started to subside, he has to admit that seeing Gravedigger makes him a little nostalgic. He'd always found the machine fascinating and beautiful but now, she's even more so. 

But the nostalgia is accompanied by a distant pain, like the throb of a phantom limb. He doesn't want to know how strong that pain will get if he continues to stare at the Jaeger so instead, he turns and looks at Scott, whose eyes are still fixated on Gravedigger. His elbow is only a few inches away from Isaac's and even though it's an invasion of the personal space Isaac has spent years cultivating, he doesn't try to move away. 

Instead, he clears his throat. Scott turns his head, and Isaac asks, “So, can you show me around the rest of the place?”

&. 

Their first stop is the training and combat rooms. They pass through a number of them, some filled with exercise equipment while the others are just mats, made for sparring. The walls are lined with mirrors, smudged with fingerprints and sweat. On the far side of the last room, one of the mirrors has been removed and replaced with a large target with faded paint. Currently, that target has three small knives buried in it, clustered right around the bullseye. As Isaac watches, a fourth knife goes flying through the air to join the rest. It's thrown by a young woman standing at least twenty feet away. Her long, dark hair is pulled up into a messy bun, loose strands dangling on either side of her pale face. Her left arm is secured in a sling. Her mouth is set in a firm line as she pulls another knife from the small pouch slung low on her hip. The others in the room seem to be giving her a wide berth but Scott practically _bounces_ over to her. Isaac makes the connection just as Scott calls her name. 

“Allison!” The fifth knife goes flying into the target, right in the center of the other four. Only once the knife has stopped quivering does she turn and just like that, the firm line of her mouth turns up into a smile that lights up her entire face and puts dimples in her cheeks. 

“Hey!” She leans in and meets Scott halfway, pressing a kiss to his mouth. “I was looking for you earlier.”

“We must have just missed each other. I was with Deaton, showing Isaac around.” He glances over and Isaac takes that as his sign to come closer, although he still can't help but feel like he's intruding on a private moment. “Isaac, this is my co-pilot, Allison.” 

“I'm a little bit more than his co-pilot, but I guess that's obvious,” Allison says, rolling her eyes in a good-natured way. “It's really nice to meet you, Isaac.” 

“You too,” Isaac says, trying his best to smile in a way that remotely approximates theirs. “Scott told me about your arm. How does it feel?” 

“Fine, mostly,” she sighs, glancing down at where the strap of the sling is digging into her shoulder. “I think it's good enough to fight with, but Melissa won't give me medical clearance yet, so until then we're sidelined.”

“She's just trying to take care of you,” Scott says, in a tone that implies this is not the first time they've had this conversation. Allison doesn't answer him verbally; she just gives him a glance and that seems to be enough. The moment is over seconds later, when Allison turns back and flashes Isaac another smile. 

“Has Scott already shown you the cafeteria?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, it's almost dinner time. Give me ten minutes and I'll come with you, I'm starving.”

&. 

By the time they get down to the cafeteria, the room is filled with people. As they head to the line, Isaac catches a few snippets of conversation about himself, people trying to figure out who he is. That's expected and easy enough to ignore. He's helping himself to some lumpy mashed potatoes when he hears someone say _Camden_. 

He flinches and his spoon drops to his plate with a rattle. When he looks up, it doesn't seem like anyone is looking at him, but he _knows_ what he heard. 

“Isaac?” It's Allison's voice he hears, but it's Scott's hand that is on his shoulder. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” he manages to say. “Yeah, I'm fine.” Scott pats his shoulder and Allison smiles again. This time, it's a little easier for Isaac to smile back. 

As soon as they reach the end of the line, Isaac hears someone call out Scott's name. It's easy enough to figure out where it's coming from; a few tables away, Stiles is waving his arms rapidly, beckoning them over. One side of the table is already taken up by people wearing lab coats, so the three of them squeeze in on Stiles' side. In order to avoid falling off, Isaac finds himself pressed against Allison's side, their trays and arms touching. 

“So, uh, Allison, how's your arm feeling?” Stiles asks, leaning around Scott until he's basically sprawled on the table. 

“Fine. Almost healed,” she says. Stiles flashes her a thumbs-up before he slides back into his seat, telling Scott about something that with an extensive use of hand motions. 

“You get used to him, eventually,” she says quietly. It takes Isaac a moment to realize she's talking to him. 

“Who, Stiles?” 

“Yeah. He's got a good heart. He's just a bit much, sometimes. But he's been friends with Scott since they were five so even when he's being... well, I'm used to it.” 

“How long have you and Scott been together?” It occurs to him after he says it that it might be a bit of a rude question and he's prepared to apologize for it, but Allison doesn't seem offended or even bothered. 

“We've been co-pilots for a year. We'd been dating for five years before that. It's been a long time.” Another smile crosses her face but this one is more wistful than the others, like she's recalling memories. While he's only known them for a few hours - minutes, really, in Allison's case - it seems like that one smile sums up their entire relationship. It makes something like a knot form in Isaac's stomach. He's never felt wistful, for anything, not even after Camden died. He'd just felt _lost_. 

The next time Allison looks at him, he mutters the first response he can think of and focuses on eating the rest of his tasteless potatoes. 

Before long, the cafeteria has mostly emptied out. The pilots of Alpha Wolf (the Hales, if he remembers correctly) are still sitting a few tables away and every time Isaac looks up, at least one of the siblings are staring at him with what seems like hostility. He's about to stride over and ask what their problem is when he feels someone's hand dropping onto his shoulder again. Isaac thinks it might be the fifth time Scott has touched him since they first met. Apparently, he's just a tactile guy. 

Isaac shouldn't like it. He doesn't, not really; it feels foreign, having somebody else touching him, even if it's only for a few seconds. But he doesn't feel the urge to shrug Scott's hand off or jerk away from the contact. Maybe it's the guy's smile. He really doesn't know. 

“Was there anything else you wanted to see tonight?” Scott asks. “I mean, there's not much else to see, but I'm sure I can get Stiles to sneak us into the labs if you're really interested.” 

“I think I'll pass on that,” Isaac says, just as he realizes that Stiles has apparently already left. “Maybe some other time.” 

“We'll have to scout the place first, to make sure he hasn't left any boxes around,” Allison says. It's obviously meant to be a joke but as she says it, she rolls her shoulder slightly, revealing red marks where the sling has dug into her skin. 

They separate for the night at the door to Isaac's room, with both of them promising to wake him up so that they can get breakfast before Isaac spars with the candidates. There's plenty of other people in the hallway but as soon as Isaac pulls the heavy door of his room shut, he's plunged into silence. After being around near-chaos for the whole day, it's downright disconcerting. 

So, after fiddling with the computer for a few moments, he manages to bring up an archive, containing videos of all Kaiju attacks in the last few years. The one fourth from the top is titled _Silver Arrow vs. Hammerjaw_ and without thinking, Isaac brings the feed up on screen. 

The video is spliced together from official news casts, helicopter feeds, even cell phone footage. It's also quite a short battle, under five minutes. There's only a few seconds of Hammerjaw (a class three Kaiju, by the looks of it) terrorizing what looks like a small coastal town before Silver Arrow comes into focus. It's the fastest Jaeger Isaac has ever seen, closing the space between it and Hammerjaw in mere seconds. It strikes fast as well. One fist drives into Hammerjaw's chin, sending a massive tooth flying through the air. Seconds later, one of the elbow blades comes up and slashes into the Kaiju's flank, spewing blue blood everywhere. 

Silver Arrow sustains some damage, but it's nothing compared to Hammerjaw. In the last moments of the video, it goes for one last desperate attack, leaping out of the water and flinging itself at the Jaeger, front legs wrapping around the machine's neck like it intends to wrest its head off. Instead, there's a loud squelching noise and when the Kaiju falls away, there are four long barbs sticking out of its stomach. Now, Isaac realizes the purposes of the spikes that he'd seen earlier on Silver Arrow's chest. They're literal arrows, albeit ones fired in a unconventional fashion. 

Once the video is over, he sets the screen back to the video feed of the ocean, turns the volume down low and lays down on the mattress. It's hard to reconcile what he's just seen on the video with what he's seen over the day. Allison and Scott are both some of the nicest people he's ever met, but the sheer ferocity and skill of their fighting are unlike anything he's ever seen. 

He wants to be upset with Deaton still. After all, the man essentially deceived him. But Isaac can't fault the marshal's logic. He doesn't want to admit that, but it's true. Besides, now that Isaac has left the wall, he can't imagine going back, predictable as it was. The Shatterdome may not be identical to the Anchorage base that he'd lived in for over a year, but it's pretty close. Even the food tastes the same. It's also nice to have a space of his own again, somewhere he can actually spread his stuff around, a place where he doesn't have to sleep with one eye open or be kept awake by someone snoring in a bunk two feet away. 

Sure, there's a chance that the room will only be his for a few days. After all, Deaton had made the situation out to be pretty dire. If dropping the bomb into the breach (a plan Isaac still knows nothing about) doesn't work, they've pretty well signed their own death warrants. But there's no point in thinking about the big parts of the plan. Hell, if he doesn't find someone he's drift compatible with in the morning, he might not even _be_ part of the plan.

Best to focus on the small things first.


	4. Drift Compatibility.

It seems like Isaac had hardly drifted off when he awakes to someone knocking on his door. When he opens it up, true to their word, Scott and Allison are both standing there. While they're in regulation clothes, sporting black t-shirts and olive pants, both of them have messy hair. Scott's is flopped down onto his forehead and Allison's is loose, cascading around her shoulders in waves. 

“Hey,” Scott says, burying a yawn into the crook of his elbow. “Ready for breakfast?” 

“I promise, it tastes a little better than dinner. Usually,” Allison adds, dimples popping into her cheeks again. 

“I just need a second. Be right back.” Isaac pulls the door shut again, quickly changes and flicks on the light above the slightly rusted sink in the tiny attached bathroom. He splashes water against his face and when he looks up, it takes him a moment to recognize himself. Sure, there'd been mirrors back at the Wall but they'd usually been grimy or broken. 

His hair is definitely past regulation length, and when he attempts to push a clump of curls off his forehead, they just flop back. There are purple bags underneath his eyes and his cheekbones are still sharp, pressing against his skin. In three years, almost nothing has changed.

Allison was right about breakfast. Taste-wise, it's more than passable, way better than the mush they used to give out at the Wall. But Isaac has to force himself to swallow it. He knows that he shouldn't be nervous about sparring with the candidates, but that doesn't stop his stomach from churning unpleasantly. 

“Hey, you gonna eat that?” When he looks up, Stiles is on the other side of the table, eying his toast ravenously. 

“No, all yours,” Isaac says, pushing his tray across the table. “I gotta go anyways.” He doesn't expect Allison and Scott to follow him but sure enough, by the time he reaches the exit, they're both beside him. 

“Deaton's narrowed the list of candidates down to ten,” Scott says, still holding a piece of toast in his hand. “You should probably know ahead of time that all the other pilots are going to be there watching.” 

“Do they seriously not have anything better to do?” Isaac sighs. As they walk past a group of soldiers, he can hear his name being thrown around. The whole being on display thing is _really_ starting to get old. 

“Probably,” Scott shrugs. “But that won't stop them from showing up anyways.”

“Just try to ignore them,” Allison says. “If you need someone else to focus on, we'll both be there.”

“If you think that will help,” Scott says hurriedly. When Isaac looks over, there's definitely a touch of red on Scott's cheeks. He doesn't know why saying that would make Scott embarrassed. After all, considering they're the only two people that Isaac has really talked to since he arrived (with the exception of Deaton, but Isaac still doesn't want to think about him), they're also the only two people he's really okay with watching him. 

“I'll keep that in mind,” he says as they reach the elevator, smiling at both of them. 

By the time they reach the training room where the sparring matches are going to take place, the place is already packed. Aside from a neat square of empty space in the center of the room, the rest of the place is filled. Deaton is standing opposite the entrance, hovering in the doorway that leads to another training room. The other Jaeger pilots are dotted around the perimeter, mingling with who Isaac presumes to be the other candidates. Lying on the mats, parallel to each other, are two thin bamboo sticks, roughly four feet long. Isaac picks up the nearest one and twirls it through his fingers. It's been years since he's done this but he's not nearly as rusty as he expects. His fingers seem to automatically find their spots, like muscle memory is coming into play. He shifts it a few times from hand to hand, just to make sure he has the feel of it, before he turns and nods at Deaton. Deaton, in turn, turns to look at Scott, who is now holding a clipboard in his hands. 

“Malia!” he calls out, looking up from the clipboard with a grin. “You're first!” 

The first candidate is a young woman, with long blonde hair and a frown plastered on her face. She picks up the other stick and, for a few moments, there's a stand-off. Isaac stays patient, sweat beading along his hairline, trying to ignore his twitchy nerves. Finally, the girl lunges forward, lashing out with the stick. It's an impulsive, easily blocked move and while she tries to get her bearings again, Isaac gently taps her on the shoulder with the stick. 

“One to zero,” Scott says and Isaac has to resist looking back over his shoulder in order to see the other man's reaction. 

Malia does manage to get in a hit a few seconds later, a clean tap against Isaac's ribs. But after that, Isaac quickly racks up four more points. Once he's landed the last, Malia drops the stick back to the mat and leaves. While she's a decent fighter, if a bit rash, Isaac doesn't feel a flicker of compatibility with her. 

After Malia, there's a guy who looks young enough to still be in high school. Fighting him is even easier; he fights more with anger than control. Isaac racks up five points in no time and the guy is replaced by another. 

That's how things continue to go. Before long, Isaac has gone through all ten of the candidates and he's felt _nothing_. He isn't drift compatible with any of them. It shouldn't come as a surprise and he wants to be glad. Frankly, he doesn't want to share his head with anyone else. He doesn't think it's _possible_ for him to do that. 

But still, there's a hollow feeling in his chest, as the last of the candidates files out of the room. The walls are echoing with murmurs and he can feel the eyes of the other Jaeger pilots on him. He tries not to meet any of their gazes, including Allison's, as he turns back to face Deaton. 

“Alright, I went along with your little experiment. I told you it wouldn't work, Marshal,” he says, trying very hard not to spit each word out. Deaton just stands there, blank-faced and silent, before he leaves as well, walking by Isaac without an acknowledgment. Isaac sighs and pushes his sweat-matted hair away from his forehead. He wants to get out of this place, as soon as possible. 

“Hey.” When he opens his eyes again, Scott is standing in front of him. Strangely enough, his shoes are off, sitting on the floor beside the clipboard. 

“What are you doing?” Isaac asks, just as Scott pulls his t-shirt over his head and throws it back towards his shoes. It leaves him in a black tank top and for the first time, Isaac sees that Scott has a tattoo, two solid black bands encircling his bicep. 

“Well, you kinda kicked everyone's ass,” Scott says, picking up the abandoned bamboo stick. “And since I trained them, that kind of reflects on me. So, I guess I'm just trying to get some of my honor back,” he finishes with an easy shrug smiling from ear to ear. Isaac's tired and his skin is slick with sweat, but what difference will one more fight make? Might as well make his last one worthwhile. 

“Okay,” he nods, picking up the other bamboo stick. “Allison, can you referee?” 

“Sure,” she says, sitting down on the floor. Scott's holding the stick in both of his hands, leaning it back towards his shoulder like a lightsaber. He has one foot in front of the other, back straight and arms tensed. Isaac returns to his default stance, feet shoulder width apart, holding his stick lower, at waist level. 

And then, he waits. 

It's a stand-off, like it was with the candidates but this time, no matter how long Isaac stays still, Scott doesn't move. He hardly even blinks. It's downright unnerving and as the seconds drag by, Isaac can feel himself getting twitchier. He tries to keep his breathing steady and even, tries to resist curling his toes or moving his fingers. 

_Patience, Isaac_. It's Camden's voice that pops in his head, a call-back from every single one of their sparring matches. In the time it takes Isaac to blink, Scott's bamboo stick is inches away from his cheekbone. Isaac didn't even hear him move. 

“One point for Scott,” Allison calls out. Scott moves back into his starting position and the stand-off begins again. This time, it's Isaac who breaks it. He swings his stick into an arc, stopping it a hairbreadths away from the underside of Scott's chin. Allison calls out the point and in silence, Isaac goes back to his starting position. 

They both gain another point like that, one of them moving and the other accepting. Isaac knows it's all one big game of patience and he can also tell that it's starting to wear Scott down as well. As they return back to their positions after Isaac scores a clean hit on Scott's ribs, he can see Scott gnawing on his lip. He's also shifting his weight between his feet, something he wasn't doing their first two rounds. 

He's growing impatient. Isaac is growing impatient too and if this is going to be the last sparring match he ever has, he doesn't want it to be boring. 

It only takes a few seconds before Scott swings but this time, Isaac moves, rapidly pivoting so that Scott's stick hits nothing but air. As he spins, Isaac swings, aiming for Scott's ankles. Somehow, Scott anticipates it and jumps over the stick. When he lands on his toes, his blank expression has changed to something between a smile and a smirk. It's a look that makes Isaac's throat go dry, although he's not exactly sure why. 

“Oh, so that's how it's going to be?” Scott asks, smile-smirk growing even wider as he adjusts the stick in his hands. 

“That's how it's going to be,” Isaac says in return. He doesn't even know what they're talking about, but he knows he's smiling back, showing all his teeth. He hears Camden's voice in his head again but he ignores it. Patience got him nothing except frustration. The time for that has passed.

The next time Scott swings, Isaac meets him halfway. The vibration from the sticks slamming together jars his bones, but he doesn't stop. He pushes forward, jumps back when he has to, ducks and swings, all without thinking about it. He just _does._

He doesn't know how long they spend weaving around each other, only occasionally managing to score a hit. There's sweat streaming into his eyes and it should be a distraction, but it's not. Even when he has to blink it away, he can just feel where Scott's going to be, where he's going to swing. Scott manages to get him turned around but before Scott can hit him across the back, Isaac just _knows_ what to do, like it's ingrained in his muscles. Instead of trying to whip back around and risk getting tangled in his own feet, he simply lashes backwards. Suddenly, the room echoes with a resounding _crack_ and when Isaac does spin around, he sees that Scott's bamboo stick is split in the middle, rendering it useless. 

“Shit,” Isaac says. “I'm-” Before he can finish the rest of the sentence, Scott moves again, sweeping Isaac's feet out from underneath him. As soon as Isaac's back hits the mats, he lashes forward, wraps his hand around Scott's ankle and _yanks_ , hard. It works and Isaac rolls, grabbing his still intact stick as he does so. He comes out of the roll practically on top of Scott, the end of the stick pressed underneath his chin. In any other sparring match, it would be a winning move, no doubt about it. 

Except Isaac can feel something pressing into his throat as well. When he looks down, he discovers that during the few seconds it took Isaac to roll, Scott managed to retrieve his fractured stick and pin it against where Isaac's pulse is thumping hard. From where his knee is pressed into Scott's ribs, Isaac can feel Scott's chest rising and falling, in time with the thudding of Isaac's heart in his ears. The smirk has fallen off Scott's face, replaced with the broad, easy smile that he's been flashing at Isaac since the second he arrived. 

“So, who won?” Scott asks, tilting his head back so that he can look in Allison's direction. Isaac looks up as well and that's when he realizes they're no longer alone in the room. Besides Allison, the other Jaeger pilots are back, leaning against the walls with expressions ranging from awe to confusion. Some of the other candidates are also scattered around the perimeter but, perhaps most alarmingly of all, Deaton is back as well and there's no mistaking the expression on his face. 

_Surprise._

“I don't know,” Allison says softly. “You two were moving so fast, I lost track ten minutes ago.”

“What?” Isaac asks. “It's only been...” He doesn't bother to finish the sentence. While it certainly didn't feel like ten minutes had gone by, he knows that Allison has no reason to lie about something like that. But how did he not notice? How did he keep moving that long?

“Whoa,” Scott breathes out. All signs of the ferocious fighter have melted away from Scott's face. Instead, his eyes are wide and curious and Isaac can feel them roaming over his face. Suddenly, Scott's mouth drops open and just as he murmurs _oh_ , Isaac feels a spike of recognition and nostalgia slam into his brain. 

He knows this feeling. He knows _all_ of this. This is what he was supposed to feel earlier. This is what Deaton expected him to be able to find within a bunch of random candidates that he'd never met before. This is the hole that's been sitting in his chest for over three long years. 

This is drift compatibility. 

Isaac doesn't think about his next move. He simply clambers to his feet and bolts, ignoring the whispers and stares that follow him. He's vaguely aware of Deaton saying his name but he brushes that off too. He just keeps moving, further and further away from the training room, letting his feet carry him automatically. His head is swimming. He's so damn confused; while there's no mistaking what he felt, there's also no way in hell that it's possible. It just doesn't work that way. 

When he eventually stops moving, it's only because his still-bare feet are really starting to hurt. He's only been paying minimal attention to his surroundings but still, he's not surprised when he looks around to find that he's up in the catwalks again. Gravedigger is up ahead on the right and Isaac walks a little further, sitting down and dangling his feet over the edge of the catwalk when he's right in front of the Jaeger. 

He has to admit that they've done an amazing job putting her back together, sanding off the scorch marks and fixing the parts that Hammerhead ripped off. He can't help but wonder how long Deaton has had this in the making. He vaguely remembers him saying something about repairs while he visited Isaac's hospital room, three years ago, but Isaac has no idea if they continued with the reparations after he took off. 

He doesn't know. He doesn't care. He's just so damn tired of running. 

After a few moments, he hears footsteps approaching. When he turns his head, Allison and Scott are both there, looking unsure of themselves. Both of them have the right corner of their mouth sucked between their teeth, and Isaac wonders whose mannerism that was originally and who picked it up in the Drift. 

“Can we sit down?” Allison asks, scratching at the strap of her sling. “Or did you want some time?” 

“We can leave you alone if you want,” Scott adds. “We just wanted to make sure that you were okay.” 

“You can stay,” Isaac says quietly, crossing his arms on the railing in front of him. “Unless you brought Deaton with you.” 

“No, he's in his office, I think,” Scott says. “I think he's just as shocked as we are.” Both him and Allison sit down, legs crossed, their fingers intertwined. All around them, the air echoes with dozens of commands being yelled in different languages as more sparks rain down from Gravedigger's head.

“You felt it too, right?” Scott asks after a few moments. He's sitting so close that Isaac can feel their knees touching. “We're drift compatible.” 

“How is that _possible_?” Isaac asks, a little louder than he meant to. “How can you be compatible with both of us, at the same time? I thought that only worked with family members.” 

“Look, I don't know,” Scott sighs. “My mom's been the head nurse here since the war broke out, so I grew up on this stuff and I _still_ don't understand it. But I know what I felt.” 

“And I know what I saw,” Allison says. “It was like watching one person out there. You're definitely compatible.” 

“Yeah,” Isaac admits, pulling his legs up and turning so that he can face both of them. “I felt it too. But how is this supposed to work? What do we do?” 

“Talk to Deaton,” Allison says. “It's really-”

“-the only thing we can do,” Scott finishes. “I know you don't want to, but he's the only one who might actually know what to do about this.” Scott is right, on both accounts. There's no way around it. They're going to have to talk to the Marshal. 

“Fine,” Isaac reluctantly mutters, running a hand through his hair. “But can I have a shower first?”

&. 

Deaton's office is a large, impersonal space. There's not a single photo on his walls or desk and there's hardly any furniture, just a desk and a few chairs scattered around. The only really impressive thing about the place is the large window that takes up much of one wall, revealing the afternoon sun shining down onto the gently roiling ocean. 

Deaton listens in absolute silence as they tell him about what they've discovered, all of them bypassing the chairs in favor of standing. His hands stay folded on his desk and his mouth stays set in a firm, even line. After Scott says the last words ( _so what should we do, sir_?), he stays still for another long moment. The silence in the room is absolute and it makes Isaac want to squirm. Finally, Deaton sighs and gets to his feet, turning to face the window. 

“While you three were up in the catwalks, I received a call from Hong Kong,” Deaton says quietly, hands clasped behind his back. “A category four, codenamed Arachnid, came out of the Breach approximately an hour ago. It was neutralized, but not before it destroyed a Mark 1 Jaeger and decimated much of the city's waterfront.” When Deaton turns back around, his complexion is ashen. Frankly, the man looks like he's about to snap and, on some level, that shakes Isaac more than the news that they're down one more Jaeger. 

“The Kaijus are coming faster and faster. It's likely that another one will be coming out of the Breach in the next few days and it's just as likely that it will be heading towards us. According to the calculations of our scientists both here and in Hong Kong, we're going to see a double event within two weeks. We need all hands on deck.” 

“Yeah, you've been saying that,” Isaac says before he can stop himself. Before Deaton can chastise him, he pushes forward and adds, “What do you need us to do, sir?” 

“Allison, have you been cleared for duty yet?” Deaton asks. 

“I'm fine, sir,” she says, back straight and head up. “I can fight whenever I need to.”

“That's not what I asked. Have you been cleared for duty, yes or no?” Allison stays quiet for a few moments before she shakes her head, averting her eyes downwards. 

“No, sir. I haven't been.” 

“Go see Melissa again. See if there's anything she can do to get you cleared by tomorrow, at the latest. We're going to need you. As for you two, report to the Jaeger bay in an hour. Prepare to suit up.” Isaac's head shoots up at that and Deaton gives him an almost imperceptible smile. 

“It's time to test out Gravedigger.”


	5. Twelve.

By the time Isaac gets back to his room, there's already a jumpsuit lying on his bed. It's beige, made of rough material and when Isaac turns it over, he half-expects to see Gravedigger's logo sewn onto the back. 

Thankfully, it's blank. 

There's still plenty of time before he's supposed to report back to the Jaeger bay, but he doesn't want to sit around and wait. That will just result in him stewing in his own thoughts, which is pointless. There's no backing out, not anymore. So instead, he tugs on the jumpsuit and heads back on. 

The drive suit they give him is brand-new. It's bright yellow, almost golden and Isaac can tell just by looking at it that it's lighter than the old suits they had to wear. Even then, once it's on, it takes Isaac a few minutes to get used to the extra weight. It gets a little better once they adjust some of the suit's parts (he's _definitely_ skinnier than he was three years ago) but even then, Isaac can't wait to actually be strapped in, so that he doesn't feel like he's treading water with each step. 

As soon as he steps into Gravedigger's cockpit, he freezes. They've retrofitted it with all new technology. Everything seems more streamlined, more digital as opposed to physical. The bright blue displays seem to be hovering in thin air and even the locking mechanisms for their suits seem thinner and more agile. When he looks to his right, there's no sign that Gravedigger's head had once been torn in two. There's not a single crack in the wall, not a single scorch mark remaining. 

It's almost completely unrecognizable physically, but there's no denying the nostalgia and feeling of _home_ that being back in the Jaeger gives him. 

There's a technician standing nearby to help him get locked in position, but Isaac only needs their assistance for a few moments. While the technology may be different, it's coming back to him now. He's experimenting with the displays, bringing up Gravedigger's stats, when he hears heavy footsteps behind him. He knows that it's Scott before he even turns to look, but that doesn't prepare him for the sudden wave of _something_ that goes through him at the sight of his co-pilot. It's something warm and unfamiliar, definitely not something he ever felt with Camden. In fact, Isaac isn't sure how much of the feeling has to do with drift compatibility, and how much of it has to do with something _else_. 

“Hey,” Scott says, helmet still tucked under his arm. His drive suit is silver, same as his Jaeger's exterior and it reflects the lights of the displays all around them. “How's it feel to be back in the saddle?” 

“Good,” Isaac says, mouth dry. “I mean, we're not quite there yet, but this feels good. Better than I expected.”

“Awesome. Not gonna lie, I'm kind of nervous.” 

“Me too,” Isaac replies. No matter how good being back in Gravedigger feels, he knows that things are going to change once they're actually in the Drift. He's never really had a problem with 'chasing the rabbit,' with dissolving into his memories, but that had been with Camden. They'd shared all those memories, been able to pull each other back. While he's had a lot of time to reflect and suppress the worst of them, there's no guarantee that they won't come galloping back. 

But that's a risk he has to take. 

Both of them are fully locked in now, waiting for instructions. Thankfully, before the quiet can get Isaac thinking too much, Scott speaks up on his right. 

“You look good, by the way,” Scott says. “The yellow suits you.” 

“I didn't pick the color,” Isaac says, still trying to process the first part of Scott's sentence. Scott just shrugs and smiles. 

“Point still stands.” Isaac smiles back, hoping that the heat in his cheeks isn't obvious. Before he can answer, Deaton's voice comes over the intercom and Isaac sighs. This is the part that he really hasn't missed. 

“Gentlemen, we're going to be testing Gravedigger's systems today, to make sure everything is fully operational. We're also going to make sure that you have actual compatibility as well. Is that clear?” 

“Yes sir,” they both say together. The next voice that comes over the intercom is another technician, but the words that he says are all too familiar. 

“Initiating neural handshake in three, two, one.”

&. 

Isaac is twelve. He is twelve and he is twenty-one. He is standing inside Gravedigger and he is sitting on the floor of his childhood bedroom, the room he shared with Camden from the time he was born. It's a Saturday and he has slept through his Little League practice because he was up too late, reading some of Cam's comic books with a flashlight underneath the blankets. Isaac can see one of the comic books now, tucked just underneath the bed. Isaac hopes his dad doesn't see it. 

His palms are pressed against his ears but he can still hear his father's voice thundering all around him. He can't make out the individual words, but they don't matter. The tone is more than enough. 

“I'm sorry,” Isaac whispers over and over again, his voice little more than a cracked whisper. He says it a dozen times but his dad just keeps yelling and Isaac just keeps saying it. Maybe if he says it two dozen times, his dad will finally believe him. He'll stop yelling and they'll be able to go get pizza for dinner and everything will be totally fine. 

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” 

His dad just keeps screaming but this time, through his palms, Isaac manages to hear one word that makes hot tears run down his cheeks. 

_Freezer._

His chant of _I'm sorry_ picks up in speed, but it's no use. His dad grabs him by the arm and starts pulling and no matter how hard Isaac pulls back, he still gets dragged across the floor. Splinters dig into his bare feet but he barely feels them. 

“Isaac?” This isn't his father's harsh, biting voice, ruined by years of whiskey and cigarettes. This is Camden, who wasn't supposed to be back from work for another four hours. His voice is followed by the sound of his feet on the stairs, so loud that it sounds like he's going to fall through them. 

“Cam!” Isaac screams as his father's fingers bite into his upper arm. 

“What are you doing here?” their dad asks as Camden rounds the corner. “You're supposed to be at work.” 

“Dad, it wasn't Isaac's fault,” Camden blurts, eyes wide. “It's mine, I forgot to wake him up before I left, please, leave him alone.” 

“You'll get your turn later, now get out of my way,” their dad growls, continuing to pull Isaac towards the door. Just the thought of the freezer makes Isaac's throat close up to the size of a pinhole and when he tries to yell again, nothing comes out. 

“Let go of him!” 

Isaac doesn't know who moves first but one moment, his dad is still holding him by the arm; the next, he's laying at the bottom of the stairs. His neck is twisted at an awkward angle and there's blood trickling out of his nose. He's dead. Isaac knows that he's dead. 

“I didn't mean to push him.” Camden's voice sounds small and when Isaac turns, his brother is standing against the wall, eyes locked on their father's body, his skin pale. “I was just trying to get him away from you. I didn't mean to...” Camden slides down to the floor with a thud and for a few moments, Isaac forgets that his brother is four years older than him, practically an adult. He just looks so _young_. 

“What are we going to do?” Isaac manages to push out of his throat. He takes his eyes off his father's body and crawls across the floor to his brother. His mind is starting to race with possibilities, possibilities that the police are going to take them away from each other, that they might even send Camden to jail. Just thinking about that makes more tears fall from Isaac's already sore eyes. 

“Camden, what are we gonna do? Are we going to call the police?” he asks again. This seems to snap Camden out of it. His eyes focus again and he sits up straight, pulling Isaac into a tight hug. 

“Yeah,” Camden whispers. “Yeah, we have to call them. We have to tell them that it was an accident. It's going to be okay, Isaac. It's all going to be okay, I promise, Isaac-”

“-Isaac? Isaac, can you hear me? _Isaac_!” 

Just like that, everything disappears; the hallway, his father's body lying crooked at the bottom of the stairs, Camden's tear-soaked face. He's not twelve years old, he's twenty-one and he's slumped on Gravedigger's floor. His cheeks feel hot and damp and there's a lump in his throat that he can't swallow around. His helmet has been discarded and Scott is kneeling in front of him, gloved hands pressed to the side of Isaac's face. His own eyes are red and there are teeth marks in his bottom lip and he just looks so damn _worried_ that it makes Isaac's throat clench even tighter. 

“I chased the rabbit, didn't I?” he manages to choke out. He isn't surprised when Scott nods. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, pushing a few strands of hair away from Isaac's forehead. It's only then that Isaac realizes the inside of the Jaeger is completely silent. There's no beeping from the displays, no shifting of gears, definitely no rumble coming from any of the engines. 

“Did they shut us down?” he asks. Scott nods again. 

“They had to. When you... when you tried to yank away from your dad, the plasma cannon started charging. If they hadn't shut us down, we...” Scott trails off and Isaac's stomach churns. He doesn't need to hear the details; he almost destroyed the Shatterdome, almost killed hundreds of people, all because he couldn't yank himself out of the Drift. 

Compatibility or not, this was a bad idea from the beginning. Before he can say anything else, the access door behind them opens and a technician comes running in. 

“Marshal Deaton wants to see you in his office, as soon as possible,” the techie pants.

It takes a few minutes to shed their drive suits and by the time they get to Deaton's office, someone has already beaten them there. Even through the closed door, Isaac can hear a man yelling and although he doesn't recognize the voice, it's the words that are the important part. 

“Marshal, the guy's a time bomb!” Isaac doesn't hear Deaton's response but only seconds later, the other voice starts up again. “What's he going to do the next time he gets in a Jaeger? What if you can't pull the plug in time?” 

“Screw this,” Isaac mutters. “I'm not going to listen to this shit.” It completely goes against protocol and he knows it's bound to piss Deaton off, but the last thing he needs at the moment is to listen to some guy he doesn't even know tear him apart. 

“That's fine,” Scott says quietly. He doesn't so much drop his hand onto Isaac's shoulder as he lowers it. Even despite the influx of emotions coursing through Isaac, there's no denying how much that simple touch relaxes him, just a bit. “If you want, you can go back to our room. Allison should be back there, if you don't want to be alone.” 

“You sure?” Isaac asks. Scott nods and smiles at him. 

“Yeah, I'm sure. I'll be back as soon as I can.” He squeezes Isaac's shoulder before he lets go and Isaac returns Scott's smile with a closed-mouth one of his own. 

“Okay. I'm sorry,” he adds as an afterthought. 

“You don't have to be sorry for anything,” Scott says quietly and the way he says it almost makes Isaac believe it.

&. 

He stands outside their door for a few moments, pacing back and forth, shooting glares at anyone who whispers when they walk by. He has no doubt that Scott meant it when he said it was okay for Isaac to go to their room, but it still feels like an intrusion. He doesn't want to bother them. 

Before he can make a concrete decision, he hears a door creak open. When he spins around, Allison is standing in the doorway of their room, dressed in a loose t-shirt over regulation trousers. Her sling is gone and while she's still holding her left arm a little stiffly, she doesn't look like she's in any pain. 

“You coming in?” she asks, pushing the door open a little wider. It's a clear invitation and Isaac nods, shooting off another glare at a gawking passerby before he slips inside. As much as he feels like he should be alone, he doesn't _want_ to be alone. Not at the moment. 

Allison and Scott's room is slightly larger than his own, but it's absolutely crammed with stuff. There are clothes spilling out of the tiny closet and each surface is covered in little items, from hair ties to sheets of paper to throwing knives. The walls are covered as well, mainly in photos. Some of them are in frames while others are stuck up with tape. While a good portion of them are of Scott and Allison together, there are also lots of them with other people, whether it's a shot of Scott and Stiles in graduation caps or a picture of Allison hugging a shorter girl with long hair. It may be crowded, but the whole room exudes a feeling of _home_ in a way Isaac hadn't thought possible within the stark walls of the Shatterdome.

“Did you get cleared for duty?” Isaac asks. He's not exactly sure where he's supposed to sit, seeing as both the chairs in the room are covered in discarded clothes. 

“Technically, yeah. Melissa doesn't think I'm totally back at one hundred percent yet, but given the circumstances, I guess ninety percent will have to do.” She sits on the bed, left arm resting in her lap. After a few tentative moments, Isaac sits beside her, hands in his lap. Although he's sure it's just from being jarred around in Gravedigger, he feels like the scars on his arm and chest are throbbing in time with his heartbeat. 

“I was on my way back from the infirmary when I heard about what happened,” Allison says quietly. She stops there, doesn't ask if he's okay, or what happened. He doesn't know if he has words to express how thankful he is for that. It makes it easier for him to push the words past his lips. 

“I chased the rabbit,” he says, staring down at his hands. “I should have known that it was going to happen, I should have _said_ something.”

“How could you have known that?” Allison's palm is pressed against his back, slowly moving back and forth. It's a single point of contact but like Scott's hand on his shoulder, it's enough to ground him. “The Drift is unpredictable. It's not your fault.” Isaac doesn't know what to say in response so he just stares at his hands, trying to keep his breathing slow and steady. 

“When I was in high school, there was something my best friend used to do for me when I was upset. Even if it didn't fix things, it made me feel a little better. Can I try it?” 

“Okay.” In his peripheral vision, he sees Allison move and a moment later, she tugs on the back of his jumpsuit. 

“Come here.” When Isaac glances backwards, he sees that she's scooted to the end of the bed, back against the wall. He kicks his boots off before he follows her but before he can lean back against the wall as well, she shakes her head. 

“It'll be easier if you lay down. With your head in my lap.” 

“Really?” Isaac asks. “That's okay?” Allison nods and smiles at him and although Isaac still feels slightly awkward, she seems sure of herself. The instant that he lays his head in her lap, he feels more relaxed. His feet are hanging off the bed but the moment her fingers begin to smooth through his hair, that mild discomfort becomes completely unimportant. For a few long, peaceful moments, that's all she does. Her fingers gently glide through his hair, picking apart mats and brushing wayward curls away from his forehead. His eyes drift closed sooner rather than later and he adjusts his arms, slinging one over Allison's outstretched legs and tucking the other towards his chest. 

“Is that alright?” he asks, brushing his fingers over the rough fabric of Allison's trousers. “I can move if you want.” 

“That's fine,” Allison says. With each movement of her hand, Isaac relaxes more and more into her lap. After a few moments, she begins talking again in a low voice.

“Scott and I were bored one day, when we were seventeen,” she says, draping her left arm over Isaac's shoulder. “And we decided to try out the Jaeger simulator together. We weren't supposed to touch it, but we just wanted to see what it would be like, to be pilots.” She pauses for a few seconds and even without opening his eyes, Isaac is sure that there's a wistful smile on her face, the same one he'd seen when she'd first spoken about being co-pilots with Scott. 

“When we both connected to the simulator, the neural surge was so powerful that we knocked the entire system offline. Deaton said it was one of the strongest connections he'd ever heard of. I was happy because it meant that my parents would finally stop telling me that we were just teenagers that were fooling around.” 

“What do your parents think of Scott now?” Isaac asks. It's meant to come out lightheartedly, but he's so relaxed that it's more of a murmur than anything. Allison's fingers don't stop moving but Isaac can feel her body change underneath him, grow stiffer in some way. 

“Frankenstein,” she finally says. “It was a category three, just off the coast of Seattle. Two years ago. They managed to retrieve a few pieces from their Jaeger but most of it's still out there, sitting on the bottom of the ocean.” Isaac feels his stomach sink. He's never met someone else that had lost family to the Kaiju and now that he has, he doesn't know what to say. 

“I'm sorry,” is what he finally settles on. The words feel useless as soon as they leave his mouth but before he can take them back, Allison curves downwards and brushes her lips against Isaac's temple, so gentle that it hardly classifies as a kiss. Nonetheless, it makes Isaac's face flush, warm and familiar, like it had been when he'd been hovering over Scott on the floor of the training room after their sparring match. 

“Me too,” she whispers before sitting back up and resuming the motions of her fingers through his hair. He squeezes her knee tightly and tries to keep his thoughts from drifting towards the past, towards Anchorage and Camden. 

Even with all the things that have gone wrong over the past few days, Isaac thinks he much prefers the present.


	6. Trust.

At some point, he drifts off. When he next opens his eyes, he realizes that while he hasn't moved from Allison's lap, there's someone else on the bed with them. Unsurprisingly, it's Scott, perched in the space between Isaac and the edge of the bed. Isaac's hand is still resting on Allison's knee but now, Scott's is on there as well and although Isaac doesn't remember doing so, their fingers have become entangled. 

For a split second, he almost panics. He almost yanks away and bolts because he doesn't want to hear what Scott and Allison are murmuring about him. It _has_ to be about him and there's no possible way that it can be good. People don't murmur about him in good ways, ever. 

But before he can move, he sees Scott's face. He's smiling again, right from ear to ear. There's no anger or disappointment in his face, not an ounce of it and when he squeezes Isaac's hand, Isaac feels like he's plummeting. That feeling only increases when he feels Allison's fingers move through his hair again. It may come with a price, but this is still the closest to real happiness that he's ever felt and on some level, it's absolutely _terrifying_. 

“What time is it?” he asks through his dry mouth, not quite ready to move yet. 

“Just after four,” Scott says. “How are you feeling?” 

“Okay,” Isaac sighs. “I guess. What did Deaton say?” Scott sighs and rubs at the back of his neck, exchanging a glance with Allison that Isaac can't quite decipher. 

“He wants us grounded,” Scott finally says. “For the time being, at least.” 

“Can't say I'm surprised,” Isaac says. He knew this was coming, from the instant he overheard the conversation between Deaton and the other pilot. The guy was right; he's a ticking time bomb. No matter how drift compatible he is with Scott, Isaac has a feeling that it isn't enough. Maybe it would be different if they had a week to work things out, to practice in the simulators, but that time just doesn't exist. 

“How do you guys usually get back to the mainland?” he sighs, reluctantly sitting up and pulling his fingers away from Scott's. 

“Usually, one of the soldiers flies us over,” Allison answers, lips twisted into a frown. “Why?”

“Deaton seems to think I'm necessary to this plan of his, but that's obviously not true. I'm just... I'm fucking this whole thing up,” he mutters, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I shouldn't have come back here. I should have just stayed at the Wall.” 

“Isaac,” Scott says quietly. His hand comes up to rest on Isaac's shoulder and Allison mirrors the action on the other side. “When you were sleeping, we came up with an idea. It might not work but if it doesn't, we'll get you back to the mainland ourselves. We promise.” 

“You can trust us,” Allison says and for some reason Isaac can't pin down, a reason that probably wouldn't make sense even if he _could_ pin it down, Isaac absolutely believes her. He believes both of them. 

“Okay,” he whispers, dropping his hands from his eyes. He looks back and forth between them and something swells in his chest, something he's never felt before. “I trust you.”

&. 

Half an hour later, freshly showered and wearing something a little comfier than the regulation jumpsuits, he meets Allison and Scott in the training rooms. Mercifully, aside from them, the room is otherwise empty; the entire Shatterdome seems quiet, like everyone is just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Although it's been less than twelve hours since his sparring match with Scott, it feels like days have gone by. It's been, quite possibly, the longest day of Isaac's life and it shows no sign of ending anytime soon. 

Allison's changed as well, into looser pants and a black tank top and she's in the midst of pulling her long hair up into a messy bun. Scott is sitting against the wall, just looking at her but once Isaac gets closer, Scott's gaze shifts and he sends Isaac another smile. The expression on his face, something like joy and admiration, doesn't change, making Isaac's cheeks burn again. 

“So what are we doing?” he asks, clearing his throat. “What's your idea?”

“Spar with me,” Allison says simply, her head held up high, hands loosely clenched into fists at her side. “You're drift compatible with Scott. You might be drift compatible with me too.” Isaac thinks about asking if such a thing is possible, but he knows that none of them have the answers. 

Instead he asks, “What about your arm?” Allison shrugs and rolls her shoulder, pressing at it with her fingertips. 

“Should be fine. Just try not to hit it directly, okay?” Isaac nods and gets into starting position, one of his feet slightly in front of the other. 

“Ready?” Allison asks, glancing over at Scott. As soon as he nods, she too gets into starting position and their stare-off begins. Her eyes are dark and her teeth are tugging at the corner of her lip. She looks nervous and frankly, Isaac understands. If he manages to lose control for even a second and injure her arm again, Deaton might just toss him straight into the ocean. 

By the time he realizes that she's already moving, it's too late to move away. Instead, Isaac blocks her right arm with his left and tries to spin her around and get the advantage. Things _definitely_ don't go that way; Isaac has no idea how it happens but seconds later, his chest slams into the padded wall with a thud. There's something sharp just barely poking him in the back of the neck. After a few seconds, he realizes it's a small knife, probably one of the ones he saw Allison throwing when they first met. 

“Where were you hiding that?” he asks. 

“Wouldn't you like to know?” she murmurs in return. Her breath is warm on the nape of his neck and he can feel her entire body pressed against his back. Once she drops the knife, he turns around and now, she looks more smug than nervous. More surprisingly, she's also managed to hide the knife again. 

It ends up pressed against Isaac's neck again only a few moments later. He tries to knock Allison off-balance, but she manages to use his momentum against him. She sweeps his legs out from underneath him and uses her knees to pin him down. 

“You're being too careful,” she says, shifting so that her knees are pressed into his shoulders. “Don't go easy on me, Isaac. I need you to _try_.” 

“I don't want to hurt you,” he admits. In a second, the almost-feral grin on her face changes to something far softer, something totally unsuited to the situation. 

“You won't hurt me,” she says softly, removing the knife from his neck. “I know you won't. _We_ know you won't. We trust you.” 

“We do,” Scott says with a nod. “We trust you.” Isaac gets back to his feet and takes a moment to close his eyes and actually prepare himself. He lets the tension seep out of his muscles and he shifts on his toes a few times. When he opens his eyes again, he isn't afraid of hurting Allison. He isn't thinking of all the possible ways this could go wrong. He's not thinking at all. He's simply there, ready to move. Thankfully, there's not a long wait; almost as soon as he gives Allison a small nod, she's lunging forward. But this time, Isaac meets her halfway, jumping away from her attempt to kick his legs out again. When he tries to grab the knife out of her hand, she tosses it to her other hand and just keeps going and like that, it _clicks._

They're compatible as well. 

Isaac doesn't know how long they fight for but eventually, it ends with them both laying on the floor, gasping for breath. Allison's knife disappeared sometime during their fight; now, the only thing she's holding is Isaac's hand. Scott is sitting near them, brushing strands of hair away from both of their faces. 

“So, did either of us win?” Isaac asks once he's gotten some of his breath back. Scott just chuckles, dragging his thumb along Isaac's cheekbone. 

“Nope. You're definitely compatible too.” It's definitely good news but for a few moments, Isaac doesn't respond. He stays on the floor and tries to mull things over without getting too distracted by Scott and Allison. That's harder said than done; even though their touches are gentle, it still feels like they're leaving marks on his skin. 

On some level, he thinks that it might actually be _easier_ to drift with two people at the same time. Sure, there will be more memories to sort through, but there will also be two people to pull him back from the ledge, to keep him from plummeting back into his old memories. But how are they actually supposed to do that in practice? Isaac knows that there have been a few three-person Jaeger teams over the past few years but, as far as he knows, all of their Jaegers have been destroyed. Retrofitting Gravedigger or Silver Arrow in order to accommodate the three of them could take months and, based on the statistics coming out of the lab, they've got mere _days_ until a double event happens. 

Isaac forces himself to stop thinking about all those possibilities before they get too out of hand. After all, there's still no guarantee that Deaton is even going to hear them out. Now that Allison's arm is mostly better, maybe he'll just want her and Scott to get back into the pilot's seat. Maybe that would just be the best option for all of them. 

But they'll never know unless they talk to him. So, sighing deeply and squeezing Allison's hand again, Isaac sits up and looks at the two of them. Even before he says the words, he has a feeling that both of them know what he is going to say. 

“We have to go talk to Deaton.”

&. 

While Scott does the talking, Isaac stares out the window behind Deaton. The ocean is a little rougher than it was four hours ago. It looks darker, more threatening and for a few seconds, Isaac expects a Kaiju to rise out of it and swallow them whole. Thankfully, he manages to shake away that thought before it goes too far and he turns his attention back to the marshal, who is sitting at his desk, showing not an ounce of surprise at anything Scott says to him. Scott outlines their theory that having two other co-pilots will make it easier for all of them to focus and fight. Although it's obvious that he's mainly talking about Isaac, he doesn't single him out. It just makes the strange feeling in Isaac's chest get stronger. 

“Allison,” Deaton says after Scott has finished speaking, “is this true? Are you positive that you and Isaac are drift compatible?” 

“Yes, sir. I know what I felt,” Allison says, her arms crossed over her chest. “It's a strong connection.” Deaton turns his attention to Isaac after that and although Isaac tries to maintain eye contact, he eventually has to look away. He and Camden used to make fun of the fact that Deaton never seemed to blink but now, it's just unnerving. 

“The other pilots don't trust you,” Deaton finally says. “They think you're a risk that I shouldn't be taking.” 

“Yeah, I heard that earlier. This room isn't exactly soundproof, by the way.” 

“ _Isaac_ ,” Deaton says firmly. It's hardly above his normal speaking voice, but it has a sharp edge that makes Isaac wince slightly. “Let me finish. Then, you can say whatever you like. Is that acceptable?” 

“Yes,” Isaac mutters. “That's acceptable.”

“Good,” Deaton replies. “As I was saying. The other pilots think you're a risk and frankly, I understand how they feel. But I recognize a strong connection when I see one. You're already taking on certain traits from Scott and Allison, and you haven't even properly drifted yet.” 

“What are you talking about?” Isaac asks. 

“Look at how you're all standing.” Isaac turns his head and is actually taken aback. Based on the look on Allison's face, she is as well. The three of them are all standing with their feet apart, arms crossed over their chests. Even their fingers are in the same spot, splayed against their respective rib cages. 

“I think Scott's idea has merit,” Deaton continues. “But I also have to weigh the risks of this. If you chase the rabbit again-”

Suddenly, someone pounds heavily on the door to Deaton's office. The sound echoes throughout the room and even as Deaton leaps to his feet, a ragged sounding voice comes from the other side of the door. 

“Marshal!” Even though he's only heard Stiles speak a few times, Isaac recognizes his voice. Scott bolts across the room and flings the heavy door open like it was constructed of nothing thicker than plywood. 

“Oh my God, Stiles, what happened?” Scott yells, tugging Stiles into the room by the collar of his shirt. Stiles manages to throw his arm around Scott's shoulders and it seems to be the only thing holding him up. The front of his shirt is covered in spots of blood and when he raises his head, Isaac can't help but take a step back. The bottom of Stiles' face is also covered in blood, most of which seems to have come from his nose. It's even in his mouth, visible when he sucks in a shuddering breath. 

“I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?” he rasps, raising an eyebrow. The eye underneath it appears to be swimming in blood as well, likely from a broken blood vessel. Isaac has seen guys go through bar fights and come out looking better than Stiles does. 

“Stilinski, what on Earth happened to you?” Deaton asks, practically yelling. Stiles takes a minute to respond, still clinging to Scott like a raft. 

“I, uh, I drifted with a Kaiju, well, with a piece of its brain at least-”

“You did _what_?” 

“-And sir, we have a _huge_ problem.”


	7. Fingerprints.

From the instant Deaton had told him about the plan to drop a nuclear bomb into the Breach, Isaac had thought it to be a ridiculous idea. But now, it's even worse than that. It's an _impossible_ idea. 

“The Breach, it's like a damn fingerprint scanner,” Stiles babbles. His face is still covered in blood but he's a little bit more energetic, flailing around and spilling water from the cup in his hand. “Nothing's going through there that it doesn't recognize. That's why none of the other bombs worked-”

“Wait, you've tried this before?” Isaac interrupts, whirling on his feet to face Deaton, who's sitting opposite Stiles. 

“Not now, Isaac,” Deaton says quietly. He doesn't even look in Isaac's direction and it's such a brush-off that Isaac feels the urge to swipe something off Deaton's desk, just out of spite. But before he can even raise his hand, two sets of fingers, one warm and one cold, intertwine with his own. On his right, Allison brushes her thumb against his; on his left, Scott squeezes tightly, like he's trying to keep Isaac from drifting away. 

It works. 

“Yeah, so it's a damn scanner,” Stiles continues, scratching at the dried blood underneath his nose. “It recognizes the Kaiju's DNA. Anything else is just going to bounce off so unless you have a tame Kaiju somewhere that's willing to wear a nuclear bomb as a backpack, that bomb isn't going through. You _don't_ have that, do you?”

“No,” Deaton says, completely straight-faced. “But the Kaiju doesn't have to be willing.”

“What?” they all say, even Stiles. Deaton doesn't act like he's heard them at all. He simply gets up, picks up the phone sitting on his desk and presses a single number. Seconds later, he starts speaking in rapid Chinese.

“Man, this has been a weird day,” Stiles mutters, taking a swig of his water. 

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Isaac responds. Stiles snorts and opens his mouth but before anything can come out, his eyes drop to where Allison and Scott are still holding Isaac's hands. The double take he does is almost comical and his mouth literally drops open, revealing that there's still blood streaked along his teeth. 

“Wait, when did _that_ happen?” Stiles asks, gesturing widely. Isaac has a snappy response sitting on his tongue but before any of them can respond, Deaton slams the phone down again. 

“According to the head scientist in Hong Kong, we have anywhere between twelve and sixteen hours before the next attack. If their predictions are correct, it's going to be a double event.” 

“What are we supposed to do?” Scott asks. “What do you want us to do?” 

“For now, all of you, get some rest. Conserve your strength. I'm going to let the mechanics know that they have eight hours to get Silver Arrow retrofitted to fit the three of you. Sleep well, pilots. Tomorrow, you're running support for our final attack on the Breach.”

&. 

Although it's not even eight o'clock, Isaac is exhausted. It's been a long day, possibly the longest one of his life. The events of the morning feel like they occurred weeks ago; it's hard to comprehend that it's been just over twelve hours since he discovered his drift compatibility with Scott. He needs to get some sleep. 

After being in Scott and Allison's room, his own feels stark and empty. For the first time, it truly hits him how little he really has. Aside from his threadbare clothes and the tattered picture of his family, he has nothing. 

Nothing physical, at least. 

He lays on his bunk and stares at the ceiling for a long time, body aching and tired but mind wide awake. When it becomes obvious that he isn't going to sleep anytime soon, he sits up and starts fiddling with the computer screen on the wall. He brings up the video archive again and starts scrolling, past Silver Arrow's fight, until he comes to one that's date-stamped four years ago. 

_Gravedigger vs. Knifehead._

It's a bad idea. He knows that it's a bad idea and he can hear Camden's voice in his head; the words aren't clear, but the tone is. Nonetheless, Isaac selects the video and sits back. 

Knifehead was their fifth kill together, just off the coast of British Columbia. Most of the video is made up of footage from a nearby news helicopter, and as the video rolls, Isaac can feel himself drifting away slightly. He remembers each move they'd made, remembers the exact mechanics of their fighting tactics. In comparison to Silver Arrow, the way him and Camden had moved in Gravedigger seems almost crude. They were slower and clumsier, but their _strength_ was something to be reckoned with. When Knifehead lunges forward, piercing a hole in Gravedigger's side, both of the Jaeger's fists slam into its face, destroying most of its head. 

It's only when pain shoots through his hands that Isaac realizes he's actually been moving in time with the video, reenacting each one of the moves. In the absence of a Kaiju head to slam into, his knuckles have bashed against each other and the surrounding area is still throbbing with pain. 

He scrambles to turn the video off before he drops his head to his hands, breathing deeply. He doesn't know if he's ready for this. He doesn't know if he's really ready to be out there, no matter how strong the connection is. He doesn't know if he can deal with the hopes of the world sitting, in part, on his shoulders. 

What he does know, even if it's difficult to admit, is that he doesn't want to be alone. He's been alone for way too long. 

He pulls on a shirt before he pads down the hallway in his bare feet. Thankfully, he doesn't meet a soul and, before he loses his nerve, he knocks on Scott and Allison's door. They answer almost immediately and neither of them look like they've slept yet. 

“We were actually about to come see you,” Allison says, shoving her hair away from her face, only for it to fall back into her eyes. “Have you slept yet?” 

“No,” Isaac says. “Tried to, but... I don't know. My room feels too empty, I think.” 

“Ours too. It's weird, isn't it?” Scott asks, huffing out a laugh. “A few days ago, I thought that that we had way too much stuff in here but now, without you, it doesn't feel right.” 

“Drifting does weird stuff,” Isaac agrees, burying a yawn into the crook of his elbow. Allison and Scott step aside to let him in and almost immediately, Isaac stubs his toe off the mattress from their bunk, which is now lying on the floor, surrounded by pillows and piles of clothing. 

“Were you guys renovating?” he asks. He means it innocently but it brings a light blush to Scott's cheeks and a darker one to Allison's. 

“Sort of?” Scott replies, grinning sheepishly. 

“We were trying to figure out if it was possible for three people to sleep on our mattress. So we created a nest,” Allison says. 

“It was just an idea,” Scott adds. “We weren't assuming that you would come over here and want to sleep with us.” 

“What if I _did_ want to?” Isaac blurts out, letting his eyes linger on the so-called nest they created. He knows it's the same mattress that's on his own bunk but their arrangement still looks infinitely more comfortable. “Is it okay, if that's what I want?” For a few moments, neither of them answer and Isaac thinks about bolting back down the hallway and figuring out the rest in the morning. But that's before Allison and Scott grab his hands and when he looks up, they're both smiling again. 

“Yeah,” Allison says, squeezing his hand. “Because we want it too.”

&. 

It should be claustrophobic. It should be too warm, too restricting. It should be absolute hell, to have two people be so close to him.

It's the complete opposite. 

Allison is pressed against his back, curled around him like a comma. Her chin is against his shoulder and her arm is wrapped around his waist, fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt. Scott is on the other side, facing him with his arm draped over Isaac's hip. His head is resting on Isaac's outstretched arm and every so often, his hair tickles Isaac's nose and he has to try not to sneeze. 

Isaac doesn't really know how they ended up like this. As soon as they turned off the light, it seemed to happen naturally, like they'd been doing it for years. With each moment that passes, it feels like he's sinking further and further into the mattress. His mind is finally starting to be as tired as his body and he doesn't feel the incessant need to talk things over, to question what they'll be doing tomorrow. 

He presses a kiss to the top of Scott's forehead, squeezes Allison's hand tightly, and falls asleep.

&. 

As it turns out, there's no time to talk about any of that stuff in the morning either.

When Isaac wakes up, he's still entangled with Scott and Allison. Their legs are completely intertwined and he's not exactly sure whose hands belong to whom. There's no time to figure it out, though, since there's an alarm ringing somewhere in the room. That's quickly followed by Deaton's voice, apparently coming from the computer screen set into the wall. 

“Good morning, pilots,” he says. “Is Isaac with you?” With a groan, Scott manages to extract himself and he stands up, pressing a button on the screen. 

“Yes sir, he's here,” he mumbles through a yawn. “What time is it?” 

“Six o'clock. You're needed in the Jaeger bay, immediately. Suit up first.” 

“Yes, sir.” Scott presses the button again and turns around, sitting on the edge of the bare bunk. Isaac can feel Allison stirring behind him but before she sits up, she presses a kiss behind his ear. 

“Ready to help save the world?” Scott asks. Isaac has a feeling that he means it to sound light, but the words come out oddly flat and his smile doesn't reach his eyes. Now that Isaac is more awake and the reality of the situation has started to set in, he doesn't feel ready for this at all. It'll be different once they're suited up and the adrenaline sets in, but that relief seems like it's years and years away. 

For just a moment, he yearns for the Wall again, for the dangerous brand of tedium that it carried with it. But then Allison wraps her arms around his waist and tucks her chin against his shoulder, and all thoughts of the Wall and the years before it disappear from his head. 

“It's okay if you're scared,” she says quietly, words brushing over his neck. “We are too.” 

“I'm not scared,” Isaac mutters, but it's an automatic reaction. He's pretty certain that they both know it too. Allison presses another kiss behind his ear and Scott kneels in front of him, resting his hands on Isaac's crossed legs. There's no sign of a smile on his face now but nonetheless, he looks like hope. 

“Later,” he murmurs quietly, brushing some of Isaac's hair away from his forehead before he kisses a kiss there, lips warm and dry. Between the two of them, Isaac feels like he's going to be engulfed, not by fear, but by something else that seems impossible to understand. It's only been two days since he met them but everything before that seems blurry, like it happened in a drunken haze.

“Later,” Scott says again, following it with another kiss. Allison also says it, murmuring it into the crook of his neck and Isaac doesn't need to ask what they mean. He understands perfectly. 

“Later,” he says as well, squeezing Scott's hand and pressing his face into Allison's thick, soft hair. 

He just hopes with everything he has that there will _be_ a later for them.


	8. Neural Handshake.

By the time they get suited up and enter the Jaeger bay, it looks like every soul in the Shatterdome is there as well. The place is crammed with security personnel dressed in black, technicians in lab coats and pilot candidates. Isaac spots Stiles at the edge of the crowd, leaning against a table beside a woman in nurses' scrubs. The resemblance between her and Scott is easy to spot, and she raises her hand in a small wave, which Allison and Scott return. 

After a moment of consideration, Isaac returns the wave as well. 

It's easy enough to find the other pilots; they're at the front of the crowd, lights glinting off their metal drive suits. Deaton's in front of them, standing on a heap of metal, hands clasped behind his back. It's easy enough to get up front; as soon as the others in the crowd notice them, they part, opening up a path to join the other pilots. They've barely stopped moving when Deaton raises his hand and the crowd grows silent, broken only by a few murmurs. The Yukimuras are on Isaac's left; he hasn't gotten a chance to speak to them yet but Kira, who looks to be around his own age, sends him a friendly smile when he glances over. It's in direct contrast to the look that both of the Hales are giving him. He can't _see_ it, since they're behind him, but he can feel it prickling at the back of his neck. 

He clenches his jaw and forces himself to stare ahead at Deaton. He can't let them bother him; he can't bring that into the Drift, not unless he wants to chase the rabbit again and that simply can't happen, period. 

“This is an important day, for all of us,” Deaton starts, voice echoing around the massive chamber. “It's an important day for all of humanity. It may be the last day that any of us have. I hope that isn't the case, but it's all too possible that we've come up against a threat we simply can't compete with.” He pauses and with each second that goes by, Isaac feels twitchier. He doesn't understand why all this is necessary, why the Marshal needs to do some grandstanding before the main event. Isaac just wants to get out there and reach the end as soon as possible, regardless of what kind of ending it is. 

“I hope that isn't the case,” Deaton repeats. “But at the very least, we will not sit idly by. We will not accept our fates without a fight, will we?”

“No, sir!” the crowd yells, thunderously loud in the enclosed space. It makes a shiver go down Isaac's spine. 

“I would like to preemptively thank you all for your dedicated service to the Pan-Pacific Defense Corps. We need that dedication from all of you for one more day. Is that possible?” 

The room echoes with yells of affirmation and this time, Isaac's is among them. Deaton turns his gaze down to the pilots and there's no mistaking it; he's smiling, like he's _proud_ of them. 

“One more day, ladies and gentlemen,” he says, quieter now. “Good luck.” It's a relatively subdued end to the speech, but Isaac is beyond thankful for it. It means that they can really get down to business now. The rest of the crowd begins to thin out as people return to their duties and Deaton steps down off of the metal heap, noticeably calmer now that his audience is smaller. 

“We expect to hear about movement in the Breach in the next few hours,” he starts, skipping right over the pleasantries. “Silver Arrow and Foxfire, your job is to run point and engage the Kaijus. Once one of them has been killed, Alpha Wolf will attach the bomb to it and drop it into the Breach. We'll trigger it remotely from here. Understood?” 

“What if we fail?” It's Kira who speaks up, disregarding the glare that her mother sends her. 

“Hong Kong is on standby with a bomb of their own, ready to move if we make the call. Now, get to your Jaegers.” He pauses for a second, but it's obvious that he has more to say. He looks at each of them in turn and ends on Isaac, staring at him intently. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “All of you. It's been a pleasure to serve with you.” 

It's been over three years since Isaac last saluted anyone, but he doesn't even have to think about his form. The action is pure reflex, and when Deaton returns the gesture, there's no mistaking the surprise on his face. After he takes his leave, the male Hale pilot (Derek, if he remembers right) clears his throat, obviously asking for attention. 

“If we're going to die, at least we're dying in a Jaeger,” he says. “At least we're trying to do something about it.” His sister nods beside him, followed by both Yukimuras. 

“Yeah man, you said it,” Scott says quietly. “No place else I'd rather be.” It's not a statement Isaac completely agrees with but nonetheless, he nods as well, wishing that he wasn't already wearing the heavy gloves that go with his drive suit. It's only been a few minutes since he last had skin to skin contact of some kind with Scott and Allison but he wishes that he could have one more, just a final memory, in case everything goes to hell. 

He settles for smiling at both them, a smile he extends to the other pilots as well. 

“Me too. If we're gonna die, let's at least go out with a bang."

&. 

The inside of Silver Arrow's cockpit doesn't look much different from Gravedigger's. Mainly, things are a little sleeker; the plates of metal curve into each other, rather than meeting at harsh angles. The colors are different too; while the electronic displays are still the same electric blue color, the walls and floor are silver with red accents. That makes it easy enough to see where the mechanics have made the adjustments so that the cockpit can accommodate three pilots; the metal they used is stark and black. Frankly, when contrasted with the mechanisms that are meant to lock Scott and Allison in place, Isaac's (located on the far right of the cockpit) looks downright unwieldy. 

“Is this even going to hold me?” Isaac asks, reaching up and giving the metal an experimental tug. 

“Yes,” the technician in front of him says. Isaac doesn't miss the way he rolls his eyes, but he doesn't bother calling him out on it. They're all on edge, after all. “Step into position, please.” The three of them get locked in and the technicians leave. Isaac has no idea how long it's going to be before they get called into action; it could be five minutes or it could be four hours. Until then, all they can do is stay in position and wait. 

They don't speak for a long time, at least not to each other. After a few moments, Isaac realizes that he can hear Allison murmuring but it's in French, not English. He doesn't understand a single word but that doesn't matter; he's pretty sure that she isn't speaking to either of them anyway. After a bit, Scott starts as well, whispering to himself in Spanish. Isaac closes his eyes; he only knows a few Japanese and Russian curse words so, while he's sure that the others wouldn't really pay attention to what he wants to say, he keeps it in his head. 

_All I can do is try. For you, Cam. For you and for Mom._

He doesn't know how much time passes while he stands there, head bowed and eyes closed. Now that he's said his piece, he needs to try and clear his thoughts of anything that could drag him away from Scott and Allison. A beeping breaks him out of his efforts and he opens his eyes just as Silver Arrow's engines fire to life. 

“It's time,” Marshal Deaton says over the intercom. “Are you ready, pilots?” 

“As we'll ever be,” Isaac says. 

“Good luck. Preparing to initiate neural handshake in three, two, one.”

&. 

_Sitting with Stiles in a sandbox somewhere, all skinned knees and gap-toothed smiles. Standing on the main deck of the Shatterdome, watching a Jaeger rush into battle. Kissing Allison (kissing Scott) for the first time, tucked away in a storage closet so that her parents won't know. Looking up at Isaac, his face red and hair a matted mess and just knowing that-_

Isaac fully settles into the Drift, with a shudder that goes through his whole body. It rocks the entire Jaeger but after the moment of fluctuation, their systems go back to normal. Isaac can't help the grin of relief that bursts across his face. 

“Everything looks stable,” the head technician says. “We're going to hook you up to the helicopters now so that we can fly you out, so just hold steady, alright?”

“Sounds good,” Scott says, reaching up and flicking a switch to put them in low-power mode so that they don't accidentally disengage from the helicopters that will carry them to the Breach. He turns to look at both of them and his grin is downright infectious. 

“It feels good to be back up here,” he says. His lips don't move, nor do Allison's when she agrees with the statement, but Isaac still hears it clear as day. 

“It does,” he agrees, meaning it with everything he has. “It's been too long.” He absently glances around the cockpit, getting himself familiarized with some of the different buttons and controls. When he looks at the wall beside him, his eyes linger on a seam in the metal. He could have sworn that it wasn't there a few minutes ago. More worryingly is that it seems to be getting wider with each second. After only a few moments, it's wide enough for him to see out of and where there should be bright blue sky, there's just darkness. But it isn't the black expanse of a starry night; it's the rough textured black skin of a Kaiju. As he keeps watching, electric-blue blood begins to leak through the seam as well, puddling around his feet. When he inhales through his nose, he smells scorched metal and-

“Isaac!” 

Isaac jerks his head sharply, looking to his left. He can still smell burning blood and smoke. 

“Isaac, come back to us. We're both here.” He closes his eyes for a few moments and when he opens them again, he can see Scott and Allison, both looking at him, their eyes wide. 

“Isaac, it's okay. We're in Silver Arrow, just off the coast of California. This isn't Anchorage.” When Isaac breathes again, the smell of scorched metal and flesh has almost completely vanished. Instead, he can smell his shampoo from earlier and whatever was used to last clean his suit. 

“This isn't Anchorage,” Isaac repeats, blinking away a drop of sweat. “This isn't Anchorage.” 

“You're with us,” Allison says. “Okay?” 

“Yeah.” His throat feels bone-dry, and he really wishes they had some damn water to drink. “Yeah. I'm with you.” Still, he can't help but take one last glance to his right, where he half-expects the hellish scene to still exist. 

But there's no seam in the metal. It’s a smooth, unbroken sheet. There's no Kaiju blood pooling around his feet and no wisps of smoke floating through the air. There's nothing but a wall and, most importantly of all, he can't feel any errant memories trying to yank him back into the past. 

There's just the three of them and the Drift. He can feel their presence in his mind, but it's a comforting feeling. It feels _right_. 

For the first time in years, he doesn't feel the need to escape into the past. Even with the threat of death looming on the horizon, he has everything he needs beside him.


	9. Fissures.

At least another half hour goes by before the head technician's voice comes over the intercom again, informing them that they've reached their destination. Holographs of the two Kaijus that they'll be facing pop up in front of them, created by the sensors dotted around the Breach. They're both huge category fours, codenamed Leatherback and Sabertooth. As Isaac stares at the holographs, he feels cold fear settle into his entire body. 

He really hopes that the adrenaline is going to kick in soon. 

The helicopters let go of them and Isaac's stomach plummets as the Jaeger drops , splashing into the water before its massive feet slam into the ocean floor. Thankfully, they've been deposited in a fairly shallow area, but they're still at a bit of a disadvantage. Foxfire is close by, while Alpha Wolf has been dropped behind them, safely out of reach of the Kaijus for the time being. The beasts haven't popped above the waves yet, but the radar in front of Isaac's face indicates that they're nearby, probably biding their time before they attack. Scott flicks a switch in front of him, which patches through to the communications channel with the other two Jaegers. 

“Alpha Wolf, let us know if you spot any movement near you. You too, Foxfire.” 

“Copy that. We'll try to provide munitions support, if we can,” Laura Hale answers.

After that, there's nothing to do but wait. Thankfully, it isn't long before the radar starts beeping rapidly as one of the Kaijus begins to move even quicker, cutting through the water at a speed Isaac has never seen before. It's coming right for them and they plant their feet, ready for the creature's first attack.

Just as Sabretooth, a humongous beast with protruding fangs and scaly black skin, pops above the surface of the water, they meet him halfway. Silver Arrow's right fist slams into Sabretooth's face, fracturing one of its teeth. The Kaiju barely seems to notice it; while the blow knocks it off balance, it just leaps again, attempting to wrap its powerful jaws around Silver Arrow's arm. It's a move that would undoubtedly rip the limb from the Jaeger's body but thankfully, they manage to side-step it while firing an elbow rocket. The rocket scores a hit on Sabretooth's flank but it barely seems to feel the impact. It just keeps coming, lunging and snapping, and all they can do is try to whittle it down, blow by blow, slashing with the elbow blades whenever they get a chance. There's no help coming from Foxfire; they've got their hands full with Leatherback, who's even bigger than Sabretooth and has some vicious claws to boot. 

The three of them move in perfect sync, in near-silence, aside from their labored breathing and groans when Sabretooth manages to score a hit on them. There's no need to speak. They're all one mind now, thinking and acting as one. Chasing the rabbit isn't an option anymore because, for the time being, their individual identities have taken a step backward. 

There's no Allison, Isaac or Scott. There's just Silver Arrow. 

Sabretooth may be huge and powerful, but Silver Arrow has the advantage of speed. It means that they can avoid the worst of the Kaiju's attacks but in order to get in any hits of their own, they have to take some damage. When they slam the plasma cannon into Sabretooth's side, the beast sinks its remaining teeth into Silver Arrow's thigh. Its grip doesn't last long, the cannon managing to damage it pretty badly, streaking the sea with blue blood and exposing the Kaiju's gleaming ribcage. But they’re not uninjured, the Jaeger's leg not so much moving as it does drag. It reduces their speed drastically and even though there's no time to think about it, cold sweat breaks out all over Isaac's body. 

Before they can swing again, Leatherback lets out a thunderous roar. When they turn, Isaac's jaw drops. He's heard of Kaijus doing some pretty insane things, but _flying_? 

That's a first. 

But that's exactly what Leatherback is doing. Even worse than that is the fact that it's grabbed hold of Foxfire's shoulders and is pulling it into the air, massive wings flapping. 

“Foxfire, do you copy?” Scott yells. 

“Keep fighting!” one of the Yukimuras screams back. Foxfire thrashes in Leatherback's talons but to no use; by the time Sabretooth attacks again, the other Jaeger has been pulled into the low-hanging clouds. When Sabretooth leaps again, it leaves its neck wide open, which means that Silver Arrow can wrap its massive hands around the Kaiju's throat. The beast thrashes widely, feet slamming into Silver Arrow's legs, making the Jaeger rock back on its feet. 

“Arrows!” Allison yells. “We have to use the arrows!” In sync, they roll their shoulders back, which makes Silver Arrow's chest plate slide apart. Abruptly, the Kaiju stops thrashing; instead, it opens its mouth and _screams_ , so loud that it makes Isaac's head pound. It doesn't make sense that the creature stopped moving just to roar, but that's not the point. The point is that Sabretooth is hanging right in front of Silver Arrow's chest and, when all three of them roll their shoulders forward again, all four of the massive arrows shoot into Sabretooth's front, piercing its throat and stomach. It's a fatal blow; within seconds, Sabretooth goes limp in Silver Arrow's fists, blood dripping from the wounds on its chest. 

“Alpha Wolf, we've got your Kaiju,” Allison says. When Isaac glances over, her eyes are bright and there's a feral grin on her face. It's a look that's simultaneously terrifying and beautiful. “Ready for it?” There's no response so this time, Isaac tries. 

“C'mon Hales, we've got a Kaiju here who needs some new accessories and that bomb of yours would look real nice on him.” There's still no answer from the Hales but after a few moments, Marshal Deaton comes on and it's easy enough to hear that he actually sounds _scared_. 

“Silver Arrow, do you copy?”

“Yes sir, we're still here. Are you in contact with Alpha Wolf?” Scott asks as they slowly turn, right leg dragging, Sabretooth still clutched in Silver Arrow's fists like an extremely heavy ragdoll. 

“No, it's radio silence. Did Sabretooth do anything before you killed it, anything unusual?”

“It roared,” Allison says. “It stopped fighting and it roared at us, for no reason.” Suddenly, a thought appears in Isaac's head, a thought that's spoken in a voice that sounds a lot like Camden's. 

“Is Alpha Wolf digital or nuclear?” he asks. The answer pops into his head, from either Allison or Scott, before he can even finish saying the sentence. 

“Digital,” Deaton answers. “What are you thinking, Isaac?” 

“An EMP,” Isaac continues. “If that thing let out an electromagnetic pulse when it screamed, it would knock Alpha Wolf completely offline, but we'd be fine. That has to be what happened.” 

“It makes sense,” Deaton replies. For a few moments, there's only the sound of mutters on the other end of the connection, him consulting with someone. When he comes back, he sounds completely renewed; every hint of fear has been banished from his voice. 

“We need you to deliver the payload,” Deaton says. “We have a helicopter nearby to airlift the Hales out of there. Once they're gone, you need to get that bomb off Alpha Wolf's back and to the Breach, as soon as possible.” 

“And how are we supposed to do that?” Isaac snaps. Before Deaton can answer, an image appears in Isaac's brain, possibly one of the most ridiculous things he's ever seen. When he glances over at Scott, who he thinks originated the image, Scott is grinning. It's less feral than Allison's, more like a _why-the-hell-not_ look. 

“That better work,” Allison says from the other side of the cockpit. “But if we aren't careful, we're going to blow ourselves up.” 

“We've got this, Marshal,” Scott says. “Just let us know if Leatherback or Foxfire are going to fall in on us.” Still clutching Sabretooth, they begin making their way over to Alpha Wolf, which is still standing completely motionless half a mile away. 

“If we make it through this,” Isaac says silently, right leg aching, “I'm kissing both of you. If that's okay.” 

Based on the flurry of images that fly through his mind and leave his cheeks burning, both Scott and Allison are more than okay with that idea.

&. 

Isaac has never really been a big fan of water, even at the best of times. When he was younger, before his mother died, there had been times where he'd refused to bathe for a week, just because he didn't want to sit in the bathtub. Although it's a fear that has waxed and waned as time has gone by, it's never completely gone away. 

Being stuck miles under the surface of the ocean, in a slowly failing Jaeger? Well, that's enough to bring the fear back in full force. 

Every step they take dredges up silt from the ocean's bottom, making it difficult to see even with all the lights dotting Silver Arrow's exterior turned on. The Jaeger's right leg is essentially useless and Isaac is convinced that it's going to completely give out before they can even reach the Breach. As the water pressure increases, creaks echo through the cockpit, sounding ominously like the metal is going to buckle at any second. 

Silver Arrow wasn't built to withstand these conditions. It was built for speed, and that's only useful if both legs are in functioning order. 

“Only a little further,” Scott grunts. Isaac can tell that Scott's arms are hurting, because it's a pain shared by the three of them. They've been holding Sabretooth for at least an hour now and as the water pressure increases, so does the weight of the Kaiju in the Jaeger's arms. 

The fact that there's a bomb stuffed inside Sabretooth's chest cavity _really_ doesn't help. 

Three more miles. 

They just keep moving, covered in sweat, forcing their legs to move up and down, arms shaking. 

Two more miles. 

In addition to the creaks and groans as the Jaeger deals with the added pressure, Isaac can hear a terrible grinding sound of metal against metal, coming from far below them. 

One more mile. 

“I think I see it,” Allison says through gritted teeth. “God, I _hope_ that's it.” When Isaac peers through the gloom, he can see it too. It's a glowing fissure in the ocean floor, glowing orange like a coal. It's so close and yet, it's so goddamn far.

They're within half a mile when, with one final horrendous _screech_ of metal, Silver Arrow's damaged leg snaps off while they're in mid-step. The change in momentum makes Isaac's stomach lurch threateningly and he curses loudly as the ground rushes up towards them. They manage to throw out Silver Arrow's right arm at the last minute, which prevents them from crashing to the ground. Sabretooth's corpse and the bomb within it are now over Silver Arrow's shoulder in a fireman carry and the Jaeger creaks ominously again. Isaac expects water to start shooting into the cockpit at any moment. 

“We did _not_ come this far to die on the ocean floor,” Isaac hisses. “We're almost there. We can do this.” 

The fingers of Silver Arrow's right hand dig into the ocean floor, stirring up so much dirt that it becomes impossible to see. Thankfully, there's enough leverage for them to pull the Jaeger forward a few yards. They do it again and again and again, getting a little closer to the Breach each time. 

By the time they're finally within arm's reach of the glowing fissure, Isaac can hardly see from the sweat pouring into his eyes. It feels like every muscle in his body has turned to rubber. 

But they've made it. 

With one last movement, they grab Sabretooth's body and fling it forward the last few yards. It disappears over the edge of the Breach. Seconds later, blue lightning dances around the edge of the crack in the Earth, which seems like a sign that the Kaiju's body has been scanned and allowed through. 

“Marshal, we did it,” Scott says, voice little more than a rasp. “Detonate the payload.” 

“You need to get as far away from there as you can,” Deaton replies, speaking quickly. “Get away from the Breach _now_. That's an order.” 

“Sorry Marshal,” Isaac chuckles ruefully. “It looks like we're going to be disobeying that order.” Even if they start crawling immediately, there's no way that they'll be able to get out of the bomb's radius in time. 

“Detonate the payload, Marshal,” Allison says, her voice stern and firm. “Now. You have to do it.” After she's done speaking, Scott flicks one of the switches in front of him, cutting off their communications channel. Frankly, Isaac is amazed it lasted this long. All three of them sag against their locking mechanisms. Isaac can feel Scott and Allison's exhaustion, covering him like a blanket. 

Sleep sounds like a wonderful idea, possibly the most wonderful idea he's ever had. He braces his forehead against the front of his helmet and lets his eyes drop closed. It sounds like Scott and Allison are saying something but he can't make the words out. He doesn't think it's important anyways; he doesn't want to spend what are likely to be his last moments on Earth trying to spit out words. Instead, he just dwells on feelings, the intangible concepts that he can't quite put into words. He knows they'll understand; it's easy to understand, in the Drift. 

In the end, right before he finally passes out, he realizes that all of his thoughts and emotions can really be summed up in two words. 

_Thank you._

&. 

Isaac wakes up to the purest, most brilliant light he's ever seen. It's so overwhelming that he has to shut his eyes before he can get a good look at his surroundings, but while he waits for his vision to adjust, he pulls his helmet off and lets his other senses do some of the heavy lifting. 

There's a gentle breeze touching his face, bringing mist with it. When he licks some of the mist off his upper lip, he can taste salt. The surface he's lying on is unmistakably rocking underneath him and after a moment, he realizes he can hear waves. 

He forces his eyes open again and sits up, whipping his head around. The sun is right overhead, surrounded by a few thick, puffy clouds. He's sitting on an escape pod with Silver Arrow's logo painted on the sides. He doesn't remember hitting the release button, but the lid is floating a few feet away, the only other thing in the crystal-clear waters that he can see.

Well, at least for a few seconds. He's just barely gotten his bearings when another pod pops up to his left. After a few seconds, the top of it violently flies off, followed by the helmet for a drive suit. Allison sits up a few moments later, her face framed by her messy brown hair, coughing loudly. Isaac's throat is so raspy that he can hardly speak, but he yells Allison's name anyways. 

“Isaac!” She stands up and dives into the water, crossing the few yards between them in only a few strokes. Isaac doesn't know how she does it; his own arms hurt so much that even pulling her up onto the pod makes fresh sweat break out along his brow. Her hands immediately press against his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. He can't help but do the same to her; he has to make sure that this is real, that this isn't some delirious vision he's having on his deathbed. But she's there, really there, bruised and streaked with dirt and absolutely beautiful. 

He doesn't think before he leans in to kiss her, pulling her as close as possible. She pushes her hands into his hair and nips at his bottom lip, pressing a gentler kiss to the spot immediately after. Even though he can taste blood and her fingers are pulling through clumps of hair matted with sweat, it's nothing less than perfect. But it's short and when they break away, they both look around at the surrounding ocean, looking for the same thing. 

“Scott?” Allison says quietly, head whipping around. “Have you seen him yet?” 

“No,” Isaac replies, peering at the horizon, looking for a tell-tale glint of sun against metal. “But he has to be around. He _has_ to be.” Each second that ticks by with no sign feels like an eternity. It feels like a stone has settled in Isaac's stomach and his throat grows even drier. This isn't happening. No matter how real Allison feels, it has to be a dream. After scanning the horizon in every single direction, he drops his head against Allison's shoulder, trying to resist the urge to slam his fist into the side of the escape pod. There's something warm dripping onto the back of his neck, something that he knows to be tears. 

This _has_ to be a dream. 

When he hears the loud splash from behind them, he freezes. His first thought is that it's Leatherback, the Kaiju who carted off the Yukimuras, come back to finish the job. But then he hears a _whoosh_ of pressurized air, a noise Isaac heard only moments before. He whips around so fast that he nearly falls off the escape pod and as he takes in the sight before him, he feels like his face might split in half from smiling. 

Objectively, Scott looks _terrible_. There's numerous cuts littering his face and spots of blood speckle the silver surface of his drift suit. His hair is stuck up in clumps and he looks dazed, like he doesn't know where he is. But then he turns slightly and as soon as his eyes land on the two of them, his brown eyes seem to come alive and his lips curl into a crooked grin. 

“You owe me a kiss. Both of you,” he rasps. 

“Get over here and you can have all the kisses you want,” Allison says with a laugh, even as more tears streak down her face. 

“That's the best idea I've ever heard,” Scott chuckles, wiping at his own watery eyes. 

Isaac definitely agrees with him.


	10. Ghosts.

As always, the Jaeger bay is echoing with noise. But the sounds are no longer those of war preparations, of shouted orders and hurried repairs and screeching metal. Instead, the place is full of the sounds of merriment, delighted screams and champagne corks popping. Isaac has no idea where all the alcohol came from, but it's definitely flowing freely. 

Tomorrow is _definitely_ going to be a rough day for some people. 

Isaac has been working on the same glass of champagne for the last twenty minutes, from his perch on the catwalks. He'd tried to mingle for a little bit but it'd simply been too overwhelming. There were too many people crowding in on all sides, patting him on the back or shoulder like they'd known him for months, trying to shove drinks into his already-full hands. Maybe things would have been easier if Scott and Allison were with him, but they were still back in the infirmary, going through a medical check. He'd passed his check with flying colors, having sustained only bruises, cuts and some very sore muscles. As soon as he was done, he'd practically been shoved out the door. The place was too crowded, what with both Yukimuras also undergoing surgery. They had miraculously managed to slit Leatherback's throat at twenty thousand feet, even more miraculously surviving the landing, albeit with some fractured bones. 

But they'd all made it back, every single pilot. They were all _alive._

He downs the last inch of champagne in his glass, eyes still focused in front of him. Many of the overhead lights in this part of the Jaeger bay have been turned off, but there's still enough glow to make out Gravedigger's outline. It seems strange, to think that it will never be fired up again. Sure, he knows that the massive machine doesn't have much of a purpose now, but it doesn't seem right to simply recycle something so important, to reduce it to small bits and pieces. 

“I had a feeling that I'd find you up here.” Isaac doesn't know how he missed the footsteps but when he glances over, Deaton is just coming up beside him.

“You know, you don't have to wear that stuff anymore,” he says, nodding his head towards Deaton's clothes. Deaton just shrugs and leans against the railing, looking out at Gravedigger. 

“Technically, I'm still a Marshal,” he says quietly. “But truth be told, I think it would feel strange to take it off now, after so long.” Isaac just nods in response and lets the silence grow between them. Deaton obviously didn't just come up to discuss fashion with him. There has to be some point to his visit. 

“When you were recovering from Hammerhead's attack, three years ago, I said something to you,” Deaton finally says. “It's something that has bothered me since that moment. Something I should have explained properly at the time.”

“What are you talking about?” Isaac asks. He's tried to forget those excruciating weeks in the hospital and while certain details have stubbornly stuck in his brain, his memories of his conversations with Deaton are hazy at best. 

“I told you that I was sorry. More than you knew,” Deaton replies. “That wasn't just an empty phrase, Isaac.” Isaac hears the sound of shifting fabric and when he looks away from Gravedigger, Deaton has pushed the sleeve of his jacket and shirt up to his elbow. Even under the dim lights, it's easy enough to see the thick, raised lines of tissue on Deaton's forearm, darker than the surrounding skin. There's no doubting where they came from and Isaac feels the burn scars on his torso throb slightly. 

“What was their name?” Isaac asks quietly. 

“Satomi. It was long before your time, near the beginning of the war.” Deaton's fingers are running over one of the more prominent lines but his eyes are still looking at Gravedigger. “I should have told you. It was selfish of me, to keep it a secret, when it may have helped you. I know this is far too late, but I am sorry. Truly.” It feels like there's a lump in Isaac's throat and he wraps his hands around the railing in front of him, letting the metal dig into his palms.

“Thank you,” he finally manages to say, in a voice far too choked for his own liking. “For telling me at all.” 

“It's the least I can do.” Deaton tugs his sleeve back into place and shuts his eyes for a few seconds. When he opens them again, the haunted look has left his face, replaced with his usual stoic demeanor. 

“Allison and Scott are done in the infirmary, by the way,” he says. “They said that they were going to skip the festivities and head back to their quarters, if you were planning on meeting them.” 

“Thanks,” Isaac says again. “I think I just need a few more minutes.” 

“Take all the time you need. We certainly aren't lacking for it anymore.” Deaton's footsteps clack against the catwalk but before they disappear entirely, a final question pops into Isaac's head. Although their moment may have ended, he has a feeling that this may be the last time he'll ever be able to force it past his lips. 

“Marshal?” he calls out, half-expecting Deaton to already be out of sight. Thankfully, he's just at the nearest junction, paused underneath one of the lights. 

“Yes, Isaac?” 

“The memories,” Isaac blurts, turning back towards Gravedigger. “Do they ever go away?” For a few long moments, Deaton is silent and when he does speak again, it's so quiet that Isaac has to strain to hear it. 

“No. They never go away, not entirely. But you learn to incorporate them into who you are. Into who you want to be.” His footsteps pick up again and soon enough, he's gone from both hearing and sight. 

It's not the answer Isaac was hoping for, but it's one he can live with.

&. 

In order to get to Scott and Allison's room, he has to run the gauntlet again. Countless people slap his back, someone ruffles his hair, another shoves a full bottle of cold champagne into his arms. By the time he reaches their room, his whole body feels freshly bruised. His knuckles have barely brushed the door when it swings open. 

“Is that champagne?” Allison asks, taking the bottle from his hands and stepping aside. The dirt's been scrubbed from her face and her hair is pulled back into a braid; the only signs that anything at all has happened to her are the dark bruises littering her arms. 

“Yeah, someone gave it to me,” Isaac says with a shrug. “They're drinking it like water out there.” 

“Can't say I blame them,” Scott says with a smile. He's sitting on the mattress (which is still on the floor), dressed in a black V-neck and sweatpants. His voice is still a little raspy, and there are still bruises on his arms, two stitches holding together a cut at his temple. Isaac joins him on the mattress while Allison pops open the bottle, pouring it into three plastic cups that she pulls from the closet. 

“Did you hear anything about Kira and Noshiko before you left the infirmary?” Isaac asks, scooting closer to Scott so that Allison has room to sit down. 

“Kira has a broken ankle and a sprained arm,” Allison says, handing over their drinks. “Her mom's got a pretty bad concussion, but I think that's it. It might take them a bit to heal, but they'll be okay.” 

“We're all gonna be okay,” Scott says quietly. “We all made it.” That seems like something to toast over and apparently, the other two have the same idea, hitting their glasses together before draining them. Isaac coughs a bit when he sets his glass aside. Free alcohol is always nice, but champagne really isn't his thing. 

“Mine either,” Allison says. Isaac wasn't aware that he'd said anything out loud but Allison quickly clarifies. “Don't worry, I'm not still in your mind. I can't feel your thoughts, but I'm still getting bits of feelings, I think.” 

“Me too,” Scott adds. “Deaton calls it ghost drifting.” Isaac knows exactly what they're talking about. Not only did it happen to him and Camden, but he can feel it with Scott and Allison as well. 

“I wouldn't mind, if you were still in my mind,” Isaac murmurs. “I wouldn't.” Allison's hand comes up to cup his cheek, and she gently turns his face towards hers. Isaac can feel something coming from her, some emotion that he can't quite pin down in any concrete terms. It just feels warm and _good_. She doesn't say anything; she just looks at him for a few moments, smiling slightly, before she leans in and kisses him. It's far gentler than their first kiss on the escape pod, less rushed. There's no need to hurry to reassure themselves that the other is still there. Her fingers slide back to curl into his hair while, simultaneously, Isaac feels warm, dry lips brush over the back of his neck before moving to his throat. For a few seconds, he lets his hands sit awkwardly in his lap, completely unsure about where to put them. But then, an idea pops into his head and while he has a feeling it wasn't exactly his doing alone, he slides one arm around Allison's waist, pulling her closer, while his other hand tightens on Scott's knee. 

It's hard to think, when there are two sets of lips touching him, two pairs of hands brushing through his hair and curling around his hips. So he stops thinking. He just _does_ , guided by the feelings and impulses in his head. When Allison pulls away with a kiss to his cheek, Isaac takes a moment to grab a breath before he turns and kisses Scott. Kissing them both is like putting together the two halves of a whole. Where Allison is hard, Scott is soft; he bites less but presses deeper, dragging his tongue along the line of Isaac's teeth. 

When Allison pulls her shirt over her head, Isaac doesn't hesitate before following. It's only when he hears Scott's intake of breath that he remembers the scars. But the urge to cover them up doesn't come. Instead, he simply sits still as both of them reach out, fingers hovering above the lines of tissue. 

“Can we?” Scott asks. Isaac nods, preparing himself to wince when they first make contact with the burns. But it doesn't feel like that. Sure, he isn't used to having the scars touched by anyone so the feeling is a little foreign but they're both so gentle, just barely brushing against his skin. There's a bruise on Allison's pale stomach, just below her ribs and Isaac brushes over it as well. He does the same with the cuts on Scott's face. The only sound in the room is their breathing, occasionally broken by a sigh from one of them. 

Eventually, their soothing turns back into kissing, but it's different this time. It's more purposeful, less lingering. Somewhere along the way, they end up on their knees, with Isaac pressed against Allison's back, dragging his mouth along her shoulders. He can hear her and Scott kissing but there isn't an ounce of jealousy or envy inside him. He doesn't know if it's a result of the Drift or something else, but he just knows that he belongs with them. 

He can't help but seize the strap of Allison's bra in his teeth and snap it gently. She bursts into laughter and spins around to face him, her face flushed, smiling widely. Scott's grinning as well as he takes up where Isaac left off, pressing kisses against the side of Allison's neck while his hands sit low on her hips. She doesn't say anything; she simply reaches behind her back and undoes her bra, letting it slide to the floor. Isaac doesn't bother to hold back a groan, and neither does Scott. 

“That better?” Allison asks, raising her eyebrow, wanton grin still on her face.

“Yeah,” Isaac says quietly, throat gone unexpectedly dry. “Definitely.” 

From there, things become increasingly hard to keep track of. At some point, they switch positions, so that Isaac is the one being pressed against on all sides. Allison's arms are tight around his waist, her mouth warm on his throat and her breasts pushed against his back. Scott's mouth is pressed against his, almost bruising. One of his hands is fisted into Isaac's hair, the other on his hip, slowly drifting lower and lower. When it brushes over Isaac's erection, Isaac curses into Scott's mouth and tightens his fingers in Scott's hair, tilting his head slightly so that Allison can continue to kiss along his neck. 

“When we were in the Drift,” he gasps, reaching backwards to grab Allison's hip, “after I said I wanted to kiss you, do you remember what you both thought?” Truthfully, they had both thought a number of things but in the flurry of images, there had been one that lasted longer than the others, one that had stayed smoldering in the back of Isaac's mind.

“Yeah,” Scott says, pressing another kiss against Isaac's mouth. Allison says it as well, murmuring it against Isaac's neck, her fingers dipping lower to brush over his stomach. 

“Did you still wanna...” Isaac trails off but it seems that the rest of the words aren't necessary. Allison nods, popping upon the button on his pants. 

“Only if you're okay with it,” Scott murmurs, tugging at Isaac's zipper. Isaac takes a deep breath and nods, gasping as both Allison and Scott brush their fingers along the front of his boxers. 

“Yeah. Just go slow. It's been a long time.” 

He isn't sure if they say it aloud or if it's just their ghost drifting surging again, but Isaac gets the distinct feeling that they both say _we won't hurt you_. 

And they don't. The whole thing is borderline overwhelming, but they don't hurt him. Scott takes his time working him open, until Isaac feels like he might snap. Allison kisses him until he can't breathe and when he rocks further into her warm body, she digs her nails into his shoulders and tosses her head back against the mattress. It takes a few moments for them to find a rhythm that works for all of them, but once they reach that point, there's no going back. When Scott presses into him, it moves him forward into Allison. Scott's hands feel burning hot on his back and when he leans down to nip at Isaac's neck, Isaac buries his groan against Allison's warm mouth. Everything they do affects the others; it really is the three of them, together and it's even more amazing than Isaac could ever imagine. 

When all is said and done, they don't speak for a long time. For a while, it's simply because they all need to get their breath back. Isaac doesn't think he's ever felt so _good_ in his entire life and it takes a while for his body to stop going through aftershocks. But after that, there simply isn't anything they need to say. The silence doesn't feel awkward. It's comforting, almost homey. Eventually, however, a question floats into Isaac's mind, a question that he can't help but ask. 

“What do we do tomorrow?” he asks. His head is resting on Allison's shoulder and with each word, his lips brush over her soft skin. “I... I don't know how to _not_ be a pilot, not really.”

“Me neither,” Scott says, running his fingers up and down Isaac's spine. “But I don't think that affects _us_.” 

“We're still Drift compatible,” Allison says. “Even if the Kaiju are gone, we still don't change. As for everything else, we'll figure it out. Tomorrow.” She sounds like she's drifting off to sleep and truthfully, Isaac doesn't blame her. Although his internal clock says that it can't be any later than six in the evening, he's absolutely exhausted. Sleeping sounds like the best possible idea. 

As he lays there, listening as Scott and Allison's breathing slows and deepens, his thoughts drift to the picture of his family in his room. He hasn't had a chance to look at it in a few days but every detail is in his head. He knows the exact color of the scarf tied around his mother's head, knows the goofy grin on Camden's face, not far off from the smile he used to like flashing at girls in the bars they went to in Anchorage. Just thinking about it makes Isaac smile a little. 

There's no two ways about it; he wishes that his mother and Camden were still alive. But there's no bringing them back. Nothing can fill the holes they left behind when they died, no matter how much time has passed. But he's beginning to realize that filling those holes isn't necessary. He doesn't have to keep running away from them, trying desperately to forget. He doesn't have to forget. He just has to learn how to deal with it. 

He has a feeling that Scott and Allison will be able to help him with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really had so much fun writing this, and I hope that you all enjoyed reading it! 
> 
> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


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